


Counting With the Dead

by Talc



Series: Modern Thedas AU [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accounting, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dead People, F/F, Fluff, M/M, Mathematics, Mortuary Science, Platonic Relationships, descriptions of domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8525173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talc/pseuds/Talc
Summary: Being a mortician, Dorian works 24/7, always on call. He never has time to party, but when his assistant locks herself in the building and refuses to leave, his schedule is suddenly cleared up enough to attend a party for once. Then he meets the cutest, most aloof of elves and doesn't quite know what to do with himself. To be fair, neither does Lavellan.





	1. She Stole Your Cat?

**Author's Note:**

> Dorian is a mortician because morticians are necromancers, trust me on this, I briefly studied funeral services. Inquisitor is an accountant because stop asking questions, it doesn't matter.  
> This is mostly cat shenanigans, I won't lie.

Dorian Pavus does not hate parties.

  
It’d be more accurate to say Dorian Pavus LOVES parties. He never turns down a chance at free alcohol, and convenient flirting grounds when he can. The problem is, he really _doesn’t_ have the time.

  
Owning a business is always difficult, but owning a Funeral Parlour is a 24/7 job. It’s almost impossible to know when someone nearby will die, so a mortician is always on site, and the others are always on call. Being the owner, Dorian took shifts whenever someone was needed, which was often.

  
Having such a sporadic schedule didn’t leave time for much sleep, let alone a social life. Yet, here he was, sitting in his friend’s living room with a glass of wine in one hand and his chin in the other. And he wasn’t enjoying himself as much as he’d like to.

  
“Same.” He hears someone mutter just as he’s grunting and taking another swig of wine. Dorian glances to the side, catching sight of an annoyed looking elf dressed in a travelling coat. He could tell they were Dalish by the delicate markings on their skin.

  
“Not having fun?” He asks casually, setting down his wine.

  
Dorian watches as their face turns red in the dim lighting. It’s quite becoming to see them blush. “Sorry…” They murmur. “Didn’t think I said that aloud.” They turn as if to leave but Dorian holds up a hand.

  
“It is fine. I’m not having fun either.” And it’s not like he wants them to leave.

  
“Oh…” The elf settles back down next to Dorian, reaching into their coat and removing a flask, which they take a swig from.

  
“I’m Dorian Pavus.” He smiles, offering the elf his hand.

  
“…Lavellan.” The elf doesn’t smile, but they accept Dorian’s hand, shaking it softly. Dorian catches sight of a marking on their hand, dark green and quite different from the vallaslin on their face. When he is caught looking, the elf pulls their hand away as if burnt, pulling some gloves out of their pocket and shoving them on.

  
Dorian clears his throat. “So…Why are you here, might I ask, if you’re not having fun?”

  
“I apparently shop at the wrong supermarket.” Lavellan grumbles, crossing their arms and pouting.

  
“What?” Dorian chuckles.

  
“Oh, ‘e’s just being dramatic!” A voice laughs, and an arm swings around each of their shoulders.

  
Lavellan twitches. “Sera.”

  
“Inqy!” Sera grins and practically tackles the other elf.

  
“Oh, so you’re Inqy.” Dorian says with the sudden realisation that he’s heard of this elf before.

  
“I really wish she’d stop telling people about me.” ‘Inqy’ mumbles from under Sera.

  
Sera sticks her tongue out at him. “Oh stop complaining, you like it.” Lavellan just grumbles, pushing her away and taking another drink from his flask.

  
Dorian chuckles. There’s something endearing about the two interacting. A genuine friendship, rare and charming.

  
Sera’s eyes dart to land on him and suddenly she pounces, ruffling his hair, which she knows he hates. “Fancypants.” She grins.

  
“Sera.” Dorian is glad he put his glass down or he might have just spilt wine all over his shirt. “Why didn’t you tell me your friend was so lovely?” He smirks when Lavellan blushes.

  
“That’s why!” Sera smacks him on the side of the head. “Inqy’s mine, don’t touch ‘im.”

  
“You’re gay, Sera.” Lavellan deadpans.

  
“So are you!” She sticks out her tongue and suddenly they’re grappling again, Sera attempting to remove Lavellan’s coat, and him attempting to, apparently, bite her ear.  
Oh, so he is gay. How fortunate for Dorian. He watches in amusement as Sera calls out obscenities while throwing away Lavellan’s coat to reveal the suit below it, which Dorian finds most intriguing because most Dalish don’t wear suits, or even shoes. Granted, soon Lavellan wouldn’t even be wearing that, as Sera had pinned him down and was removing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, tossing his vest to the side.

  
“I can’t believe you showed up at my party dressed like a day at the bloody office, you overdressed piece of shite.” Sera shouts, grabbing the elf’s discarded clothes and finally letting off him. Lavellan huffs, pushing Sera away to dust off his pants.

  
“At least give me back my drink, Jenny.” He resigns himself to her attack, holding out a hand for his flask.

  
“Why can’t you just drink liquor like a normal weirdo.” Sera tosses him the flask, though, not seeming to care.

  
“Why can’t I just spend my nights at home, like a normal recluse?” He counters before taking a long draw out of the flask.

  
“Like you said, you shop at the wrong supermarket.” Lavellan pushes at Sera, leading into a slap fight that no one seems to notice. Dorian assumes this is normal. He watches in amusement, and in slight admiration. After all, nothing is more attractive than watching a fit young man wrestle on the ground, his shirt untucking from his pants as he tries to pull Sera into a headlock.

  
“Speaking of, I was promised a Krem. Where is he?”

  
“I’m not his keeper! Go ask Bull.”

  
Suddenly ‘Inqy’ let’s go, his eyes practically lighting up. “Bull’s here?” Sera doesn’t even nod before the elf is running off, leaving his clothes behind.  
“What a charming friend you have there.” Dorian chuckles, taking the jacket and vest from Sera and folding them up neatly, much to her digression. “Why haven’t I been introduced before?”

  
“You never come to my parties, Trousers. Hell, I’m surprised you showed up to this one.” Sera promptly takes a seat in his lap, ignoring his glare.

  
“Merrill and her girlfriend are having another fight, so she’s living in my office. I don’t think she want’s company right now. Granted, it’s not too easy to tell…”

  
“Oh, so Merrill’s single?” Sera grins.

  
Dorian swats her. “Down, girl, they’re fighting, not broken.”

  
Sera pouts. “Well she’s one of those weird Dalish bloody demon things, anyways, ain’t she? All ‘em elves are so weird.”

  
“You’re an elf.”

  
Sera just sticks her tongue at him. She’d always been a bit of a hypocrite.

  
“If that’s how you’re gonna be, I’m gonna go get sloshed.” She scrambles off Dorian’s lap, making sure to make the act more uncomfortably physical than necessary. She dashes off, presumably to get more alcohol, leaving Dorian alone.

  
He’s not bored for long, though, as Lavellan re-enters the room, now being carried over the shoulder of a very large Qunari man, who Dorian knew very well (a little too well) to be The Iron Bull. ‘Inqy’ didn’t look to happy slung over the man’s shoulder, but he also wasn’t struggling so it’s assumed he gave into the act.

  
Behind them followed a group of people Dorian knew to be Bull’s group of ‘Chargers’. Together they made an independent bodyguard group known as ‘Bull’s Chargers’. He’d only ever been formally introduced to the man’s second in command, Cremisius, or Krem as he preferred. Another man he knew a little too well…Well, he tried, but the man had never given into his flirting. Shame, truly, he’s quite the catch.

  
Bull drops Lavellan on an empty couch, Krem taking a seat next to him which is immediately followed by Inqy snuggling up to him, glaring at Bull.

  
Dorian flushes, feeling hot jealousy build up in his chest. He knows he has no right, of course, he hadn’t even really flirted with the man, but still…

  
“Dorian!” He hears his name from across the room and catches Bull waving him over. Ah. Dorian gathers Lavellan’s coat and vest in one hand and his own glass of wine in the other before he saunters over to the large Qunari and his group of rambunctious riff raff.

  
“I believe these are yours.” He says, offering the coat and vest to the elf.

  
“Thank you…” Lavellan says, snatching his coat and vest from his hands, careful not to touch him.

  
Dorian is stopped from responding by the hand on his arm dragging him to sit on the couch between bull and Krem. He scowls at Bull, mostly because the act causes him to spill wine all over his pants.

  
“Shit…” Dorian mutters, wiping at the mess. These were nice pants, too.

  
“Sorry about that, Dorian. I’ll go get you another glass.” Bull plucks the stemware from Dorian’s hand and leaves.

  
“And I’ll go stop him from spiking your wine again…” Krem sighs, following after Bull with the look of a parent taking care of a petulant child.

  
Dorian watches Lavellan pout, having lost his pillow. “Hmph, cute.” Dorian mutters to himself, quirking a smile. Lavellan immediately looks up, blushing furiously and glaring at Dorian. Whoops. He grins despite himself. It’s not like he was lying.

  
“Hmmm…Tell me, Lavellan, how do you know Sera?” He asks, sidling closer to the elf.

  
He looks like he’s going to bolt, but a moment later he replies. “She stole my cat.”

  
“…What?” Dorian really wasn’t expecting that.

  
“My cat. You’ve probably seen her if you’ve known Sera long enough. This little white thing with a diamond splotch on her back.”

  
“Ah, Nimbles.” Dorian nods. He remembers.

  
“Her name was Fen when I owned her. I was living in the same apartment building as Sera, back when she was squatting in Orlais. The place had a shit ventilation system, so I kept the windows open. Fen was afraid of going outside, and we were on the tenth floor so it’s not like she’d jump out…But I didn’t think anyone would break in. One day I come home from work and find a note that said ‘Kitty wanted walk. Took cat. Bugger off.’ Signed Red Jenny. The note was covered in rather…Imaginative pictures of cats eating underwear and a good amount of…Well, vulgar things.”

  
Dorian smiles. Sounds like Sera.

  
“So I did what any loving cat owner would do and put up posters around the neighbourhood…And came home to all of them being lodged into my mattress with an arrow. So then I had a missing cat and a broken mattress. I really missed my cat, though, so I did some snooping and found that 1. Red Jenny wasn’t the name of anyone, ever, and 2. I really missed my cat. She used to lick my nose when I was sad, and…Well, whatever.”

  
How charming. Dorian leans closer to Lavellan, hanging on to ever word.

  
“So I put up more posters and started keeping track of them. Had to take all my work home for a week, but eventually I put together a schedule of when they went missing, and had me some suspects. Some asking around and I finally went to her apartment. She answered the door by throwing a ball at my head and shouting at me about how she was keeping my cat and there was nothing I could do about it. So…I broke into her apartment and stole Fen back.” He smiles cheekily.

  
Dorian chuckles. “You broke into her apartment?”

  
Lavellan nods, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. “It seemed like the best thing to do at the time. But Sera’s not a loser, so she started retaliating, so we started a sort of back and forth. Not over the cat, because that would have upset Fen, but over other things. Mail, alcohol, hair dye. Except…” Lavellan pauses. The look on his face is rather sad, awkward at least.

  
“You don’t have to finish the story.”

  
“No, it’s fine…I started going through a really bad time. This was back when I was just starting out in accounting, I don’t think I told you this but I’m a certified CPA, and we had a new manager and she was a total bigot.” Lavellan shakes his head, glaring at the floor. “She called me ‘knife ear’ in front of my peers, refused to listen to me during meetings, called me a…a rather rude word for a homosexual individual to my face, ‘accidentally’ lost my work. It was horrible. I was working three times as much, hardly sleeping or eating. I started forgetting why I went into business in the first place…”

  
Lavellan sighs, covering his face. With a frown, Dorian scoots closer and places a hand on his shoulder.

  
“Coming home became rare and stressful. I’d always had anxiety, but it started getting worse. I stopped eating, stopped talking to people. Sera must have picked up on it, because our war against one another stopped. She started showing up in my apartment and shoving food in my face, waking me up, putting me to sleep, dressing me and feeding Fen. And she spent time with me. I hadn’t had any friends in Orlais, not a single one, but suddenly this weird cat-burglar was just always there to watch movies with me and play with my hair and randomly drink smoothies on my couch whilst badly attempting to play the violin.”

  
The elf smiles, looking at the other side of the room where they can both see Sera flirting with a tall Qunari woman.

  
“I quit my job under her guidance, and found a job in Ferelden. Fen was left with Sera because the move upset her, and I wasn’t allowed pets in my new apartment. Sera moved to Ferelden a year later.”

  
Dorian smiles because it’s a lovely story, which he says to Lavellan honestly. He blushes in response, having not realised how long he’d been telling his story, or how much he had admitted to this stranger.

  
“What…What about you? How did you meet Sera?” Inqy asks, changing the subject from himself.

  
“Ha, well my story’s not quite as exciting as yours. About a year ago Sera started, err, pursuing my assistant in a sexual way. I guess a friend of a friend introduced them. The relationship didn’t work out, mostly because Merrill was already in a relationship, but I spent so much time around Sera we got rather close. We have very similar humour. Granted, I’m not quite as crass as she is.”

  
The casual conversation is comforting. Dorian hadn’t been talking about anything other than dead bodies, and coffins, and coffee stains for weeks.  
The elf laughs, and it’s a lovely laugh. “Does that mean you’re the guy who Sera stole the pants off?”

  
Dorian flushes despite himself. “Ahem…Yes. That was me.” He really wishes Sera hadn’t told anybody about that, but he supposes if she’s going to publicly call him ‘Trousers’ the story behind the nickname is fair game. Lavellan smiles, though, which he hasn’t done much this night, and that makes the embarrassment worth it.  
“So does your cat have two names now? Is she still your cat if she lives with Sera?” Dorian slyly slips in a convenient change of subject.

  
Lavellan shrugs. “What does a name even mean? I call her Fen, Sera calls her Nimbles, Bull calls her Saar, it doesn’t really matter. Cole says she doesn’t prefer any name over another, so she is my Fen, and Sera’s Nimbles. She’s still my cat, she just lives with Sera, and Sera’s cat, Arrow. Though I suppose they’re both locked away for the night. Fen hates crowds.”

  
“Arrow? The orange thing that needs its claws trimmed?” Dorian knows this cat well, as it attempts to claw his moustache off every time she sees him.  
Lavellan grins. “She’s a dangerous little rogue.”

  
The two don’t make eye contact, mostly because it seems Lavellan doesn’t make eye contact at all, but the Mortician stares at the Accountant and the Accountant stares back. Neither seem to realise Bull and Krem have taken more than twenty minutes to get Dorian a drink, and are actually watching the two from across the room, sharing looks with Sera who is high fiving herself.

  
“Tell me, ‘Inqy’, how does shopping at the wrong supermarket lead to sulking at a party?” Dorian asks, moving so close to Lavellan that their knees are touching, his hand still on the elf’s shoulder without him realising it.

  
“Ha.” Lavellan laughs dryly, shooting Dorian an annoyed look at the nickname. Damnit Sera. “I keep track of Sera’s party schedule and avoid her when one gets close so she can’t invite me. I don’t normally go grocery shopping downtown but I needed elderflower and birdseed, so I went shopping after work, and Sera cornered me and held my wallet hostage till I agreed to come to her party.”

  
“She’s quite persistent, isn’t she?”

  
“That she is.”

  
The two go silent, observing the busy party. Dorian takes the time to examine Lavellan again, slowly looking over his features, his long hair, his eyes, his hands, the delicate lines on his face. Which the elf must have noticed, because he glares at Dorian.

  
“Why are you staring at me?” He snaps.

  
Dorian takes no offense, simply smirking. “I simply find you ravishing.” He hums, smiling at the embarrassment that floods the man’s face. “You’re the most peculiar accountant I’ve ever met. How does that happen exactly?” He gestures to the man.

  
“What do you mean? Oh like…The Dalish thing?” His hand unconsciously reaches up to touch his vallaslin and Dorian notices he’s removed his gloves again, the odd green mark on his hand visible again.

  
“I was more referring to how an interesting being finds himself in such a boorish profession, but now that you mention it, I rarely see Dalish elves touch financial professions.” Granted, Dorian only knew one other Dalish elf, that being Merrill, but he was not unaware of the rest of the world.

  
Lavellan flushes, looking away awkwardly in is embarrassment. He had automatically assumed he was being judged…Wait a minute- “Accounting isn’t boorish!” He snaps, glaring at Dorian, who simply laughs. “It’s not!” But Dorian just keeps laughing.

  
“Hey!” Lavellan swats the man’s arm, trying to look threatening. “It’s not! It’s very…Err…fun!”

  
Dorian snorts, immediately covering his face, staring at Lavellan with wide eyes. How embarrassing…

  
It’s the elf’s turn to laugh, but he just smiles softly. “Oh good, I thought you were perfect. Seems your laugh is just as stupid as everybody else’s.”

  
“So you think everything else about me is perfect?” Dorian flirts back, leaning ever so close to Lavellan.

  
The elf freezes. “Um…Well…Uh…Err…”

  
The mortician smirks, “It’s fine, I know how dashing I am.” The two are sitting so close now Lavellan was almost in the other’s lap, his shoulder close to the other’s chest, faces close. At some point Dorian’s hand had moved from one shoulder to the next, effectively wrapping an arm around the elf’s small frame.

  
“Ha…”

  
“At a loss for words? I do have that effect on others.”

  
Lavellan simply chuckles shakily, resting his head against Dorian’s chest. “I…I don’t normally spend so much time with strangers…Not that you’re strange or anything, really, I just don’t, err…Make friends…Ever.” The accountant admits.

  
“So I’m special then?” Dorian grins.

  
“Well you already knew that.” The look on Lavellan’s face is fond. It’s a nice look on him.

Chuckling, the mortician rests his chin atop the elf’s head, his hand lifting to play idly with his hair.

The two fall into a comfortable silence again. The night is getting late and the party is dying down, but there are still a great many drinking and conversing. Sera has henceforth disappeared along with the tall Qunari woman she had been flirting with, so it’s anyone’s guess what was going on there. Dorian spied Bull in a corner, the thoughts of the spilled drink far from his mind as he watches the Chargers drink and laugh.

Lavellan’s head goes slack against his chest, and his breathing goes even as Dorian can feel. That sounded like a good idea, he thinks, sleeping. He hasn’t slept much more than an hour or two in the last couple days. Parties are never made for the overworked. But he knows better than to fall asleep at one of Sera’s parties. Normally poor saps that do that lose all their clothes and end up somewhere in a forest with paint on their face and a new dog. So Dorian just let’s himself relax, falling into that place between sleep and wakefulness and lets Lavellan cuddle up against him.

He really wishes he could go to parties more often.

-

It’s a few hours later when most of the crowd have left, leaving only a choice few behind. Bull and Krem are still around, the rest of the Chargers who knows where. Sera and the Qunari woman had evidentially finished with whatever they were doing, as Sera was now back in the room, passed out on the couch. One lone man Dorian didn’t know remained in the corner of the room with an intense field of gloom surrounding him, nursing a glass of some clear liquid, possibly water but most likely gin or vodka. No one drinks water with that sort of look on their face.

“Made a new friend, Dorian?” The voice comes from his right, where Bull is now standing, carrying Lavellan’s coat, vest, and tie.

“Seems that way.” Dorian replies, removing his hand form the elf’s hair. “Does he have a safe way of getting home?”

“Krem and I’ll bring him back.”

Dorian nods. “Alright.” He presses a soft kiss to the elf’s hair as way of goodbye before letting Bull extract the small man into his large arms. Krem nods to Dorian as he and Bull leave.

The room empty accept for Dorian, the mystery man, and a very unconscious Sera, the mortician thinks of going home. It’s late, but he’s not drunk or anything (which is unusual to say the least). He should probably leave. It’s been a long night, and he can have some brandy when he gets back to his place. His thoughts are interrupted, though, by a heavy weight on his lap. He looks down and sees a white cat with a diamond splotch on her back.

“Hello, Fen.” He says softly, carefully petting her.

The cat purrs in response.

But Dorian really should leave, so he shoos Fen away, watching as she goes to join Arrow who has taken it upon herself to curl up on the mystery man’s head. Dorian watches as the cats bring a slight smile to the man's face.

And with that, Dorian leaves. He’s halfway home when he realises he spent the whole night with a stranger and didn’t even get his number. Life is cruel.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, but who is the mystery man? Not important, actually, but guessing games are fun!


	2. I've Been on Speaker Phone, Haven't I?

Dorian returns to his funeral parlour on Sunday to find Merrill has managed to make quite a mess of her workspace over the course of a day and a half.

“Why does the building smell like lilacs, Merrill?” He asks as soon as he enters the building, finding Merrill sitting in his office with a pile of badly organised papers and terribly untamed hair.

“What’s wrong with lilacs?” Merrill responds, only jumping a little in surprise at his approach.

“Nothing particularly comes to mind, but as the smell is overwhelming I can only assume you’re trying to cover something up. What did you do?”

“I’m not trying to cover anything up! I was just trying to stop you from…Oh, that’s what you meant. I uh, didn’t do anything, promise.”

Dorian will admit he is fond of Merrill, but the girl is the daftest little thing he’s ever met. “Merrill.” He says sternly.

“…Well, maybe I did…Maybe I was trying to clean up the embalming lab and spilt a lot of bottles everywhere.” She admits sheepishly.

“And you sprayed lilac perfume everywhere to cover up the smell of chemicals?” Dorian finishes, raising an eyebrow.

“Not perfume. Hand sanitizer!” Like that was any better.

“Oh Merrill.” Dorian sighs. “Did anything else notable happen while I was gone?”

“Well I didn’t write any notes down…” Merrill had a habit of taking things a bit too literally, something Dorian often forgot.

“Any new bodies?” He asks slowly.

“Oh, yes! They’re bringing one in this afternoon for a cremation. And that nice young man with the droopy frown came in to order a coffin for his dead mum.”

“Good, good.” He nods along to her words. “And Isabela?”

“Well she’s not dead or anything, though the plant I gave her died, but I don’t think plants need funerals, now do they?” Merrill puts finger to her lips thoughtfully.

“I meant are you still arguing with her?”

“Oh, that.” Merrill wilts a little. Dorian feels slightly bad for bringing it up. “I don’t _think_ we’re arguing anymore.” Either she doesn’t want to elaborate, or she doesn’t think to, so Dorian just nods and tells Merrill to go take a break so he can work at his desk. She walks off humming and smiling, so no damage done. Probably.  

He sighs as he takes his seat, settling into looking at the papers Merrill had been arranging. Financial forms. Dorian would be the first to admit his funeral parlour wasn’t doing well. These days the whole mortuary business was owned by less than a handful of corporations. It was rare to find a private funeral home, even rarer to find one not family owned. People are always dying, but there’s more than one place to get a body embalmed in the area, and more and more people were turning to cremation, mostly because cremation guaranteed demonic possession after death impossible, though Dorian had always made it so that embalmed bodies couldn’t be possessed either.

The only reason he even owns this place is because he had been the previous owner’s apprentice, a man who had decided to retire early and had no family to pass his business onto. He’d built Funerals of Ferelden from the ground up, and Dorian was too devoted to give up on it. A smarter man would get a better job. Actually, a smarter man would have stayed out of the business in the first place. He blames the lure of young rebellion that had brought him out of his family mining business into the oddest career he could think of.

And Dorian hated to admit it, but he likes being a mortician. There’s something about taking care of people after they’re dead that suits him. Maybe it was because it was like helping people without all the messiness of living. Embalming is methodical, elegant in a surgical way. He certainly prefers it to coal dealings.

The building is silent as he looks over the papers. The silence is another reason Dorian enjoys his work. It’s the think silence one finds in a library, or a hospital waiting room, but it hangs in the air most of the time with the sorrows of ones who have lost an important piece of themselves. Right now the silence is sterile, though, with only him and Merrill around.

Normally there’d be at least two more employees onsite, but Sundays were ‘technically’ days off when they don’t have funerals. As mentioned before, there’s always someone on call in this kind of business. Bodies can’t just be left lying around to rot; they need to be properly stored and sealed.

The phone rings and Dorian picks it up with the sort of reflex that comes with exhaustion and experience. “Funerals of Ferelden, Mr. Pavus speaking, how may I help you?”

“Dorian.”

Ah, he’d recognises that annoyed tone anywhere.

“Cassandra! To what do I owe this most gracious pleasure?” The over-enthused sarcasm in his voice is evident.

“I hope you didn’t have too much fun last night that you are without wits.” Dorian would never dare say he and Cassandra Pentaghast are friends, but they certainly had an acquaintance with one another. She doesn’t tend to keep tabs on his social life, though, unless she’s trying to get back at him for annoying her. Which is why Dorian immediately questions how she knows what he did last night.

“Do tell, Cassandra, what I’d have done last night to warrant such a comment.” He says conversationally, not revealing his true surprise.

“Leliana and Josephine were both at the party.” Well that explains everything. Between the two the whole current affairs of Thedas seemed to be covered.

Dorian likes to think he would have noticed Leliana and Josephine last night, a thought he does covey to Cassandra.

“Leliana says you were too busy cuddling. I didn’t know you cuddled, Dorian?” He can hear the mirth in her voice being followed by a giggle in the background.

“Leliana is with you right now, isn’t she?” He sighs. Another giggle in the background confirms everything. He should have known. Cassandra and Leliana were both members of the same church. On a day like today they’d both be there, no matter what their day jobs were. “I do enjoy our chats Cassandra dear, but you never give me social calls.”

“Of course.” Her voice immediately sobers. That’s the Cassandra he knows! “I have some work for you, if you’re willing.”

Well this would be fun. When Cassandra wasn’t busy attending and managing the local Church of Andraste, she was the city’s chief of police. If she was offering him work, it typically meant serious business…Or at least some serious increase in assets, which he desperately needs. “Elaborate.”

“I was just informed that the city’s coroner is in the hospital. It’s rather unorthodox, but I know you have forensic training, and it is more efficient to have you replace her to the time being than to call in another coroner from out of town.” Cassandra relays the information to him in a clipped tone, obviously annoyed anything had gone wrong in the city. She rather enjoys order.

“Merrill can cover the parlour for a few weeks, and you’d have more credit with the city.” Adds another voice in the background, this time with a thick Antivan accent. He rather would have liked to know that Josephine was in the room too, but then again he should have expected it. She was not an active member of the church, but she was Leliana’s girlfriend, and they tended to be near one another. “It’s not just giving you more respect, though, it’s the added revenue for you.” She adds.

“Hello Josephine.” He says pleasantly.

“Dorian.” She responds.

“Have I been on speaker phone this whole time?” He sighs.

“Yes.” That was Leliana. “Dorian, we know things haven’t been going well for your business, this could be good for you.”

“Maybe…” Dorian thinks about it. He’s perfectly qualified for forensic mortuary science, but he knows he’s out of practice. Not just this, but he worries about leaving Merrill to handle the day to day operations while he is busy. She is a good mortician, he knows this, but she also has a rather short attention span, and a…Err…Light head. He trusts her, but he knows her better than to let her oversee too much. “I don’t quite know if I can leave the parlour to Merrill’s control for more than ten minutes.”

“Your other employees would be there to help her. And they’d be able to contact you if anything went wrong.” Josephine adds, not sounding convinced by his words.

Dorian concedes.

-

The next week of Dorian Pavus’s life is hectic. Agreeing to take over the city coroner’s duties for a few weeks proves to be a horrible idea, not because he can’t do the job, but because he lost all free time he used to have. Between managing his business, fixing Merrill’s mistakes, and being an impromptu coroner, he doesn’t sleep, or eat, really.

Dorian has never officially been a coroner before. Back when he was apprenticing he had worked for a small-town parlour, oh so many years ago, and the town was so small, and so secluded that the local mortician also served as a coroner, so he had experience there. Not to mention the studies he had done in university. However, he did not have much experience with murder. Especially meticulous, pre-meditated murder. Sure, he could inspect a body from a driving incident, or a domestic dispute, but some things are a bit more complicated than that.

He is being tested. By who? He does not know, but he _feels_ tested. Maybe by some higher power, the Maker, or maybe by the city, or maybe just by Leliana and her twisted sense of ambition. The last one seemed the most likely. Though it was Cassandra who made the call to him, he knows Leliana has a higher hand in all of this. He doesn’t quite know what her occupation is, but he knows she has weight in the community, and one or two spies in every avenue.

He works through the first weekend, using the extra time to oversee the funeral parlour. The added financial assets were helping, though it was coming from his own pocket, the norm for a private business, which left him still relatively poor. That’s what you get for disowning yourself from your family and running off to be a mortician.

By the second weekend, Dorian is exhausted, and has been given the day off. Typically, he would take this chance to check on his business, but Merrill locked him out of the building…Or more so, someone told Merrill to lock him out of the building for the weekend. His money is on Josephine; she’s always been good with getting people to do things.

So, he was forced to return to his flat and pass out on the floor. He was awoken Saturday afternoon by a knock on his door, which he was too tired to answer, so he just shouted at the person to come in, and slowly brought himself to the couch.

The boy who enters Dorian’s apartment is a stranger, which is disconcerting. He’s wearing a hood which covers the top of his face, meaning Dorian couldn’t really look at him. His hands, which were fidgeting something awful, were bound in braces and medical tape. His sweater is knit pale green, thin and lopsided, so it doesn’t properly cover him, too long in the arms, dropping off on shoulder and clinging to the other. His pants have too many pockets, as far as Dorian is concerned. He has thermodynamic bag at his side, the kind you store food it, and keeps looking around.

“Who are you?” Dorian asks with maybe a bit too much bite because the boy jumps. “Sorry, I didn’t’ mean to-”

“You’re just tired. Your head is all fuzzy, and loud.” The boy speaks with a soft voice, and Dorian has a hard time figuring out if he’s actually talking to _him_ or himself. “Eating, sleeping, secondary. Things… Oh no, you’re annoyed.” The boy flinches again.

“I’m not.” Dorian sighs, trying to hide his contempt. It doesn’t work.

“Yes you are. I’m sorry. I just…A friend sent me. Is he your friend? He didn’t say. He’s worried. She spoke to him and seeded the worry in his head and now he feels that if he can take the hurt away, the worry will go with it.”

Dorian stares at this stranger, too tired to actually give a shit and decipher what he’s saying, which he’ll later realise is kind of rude, but Dorian only cares about propriety when it can get him something, like alcohol or blow jobs. “Who sent you?” He tries not to snap, he really does.

The boy doesn’t answer, but shuffles through his pockets. A handful of wild flowers falls out of one, but he doesn’t seem to notice, just pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to Dorian.

The paper is of good quality, thick and off-white, with a printed design on it, swirls and vines. The words are hard to read because the handwriting is atrocious, loopy, slanted, and haphazard, but Dorian gets the gist of it.

_Dorian,_

_Josie told me that you’re working too hard. Well, actually she said she locked a man named Dorian out of his own business and refuses to let him in for a few days, but I figured there weren’t too many men named Dorian who are also morticians that know Josie in  this city. Sera said you were being a substitute coroner? That can’t be easy. Anyways, I often forget to eat…Ever, and then I realised that if I don’t eat when I work too hard, you probably don’t either, so I sent you over some food._

_I would have done this in person but I have a meeting tonight. Please do not mind Cole. He feels empathy quite strongly, and truly he’s just trying to help. Please don’t try to look him in the eye, or shout at him, it really bothers him._

_Lavellan_

Dorian looks up from the note at the young man, Cole, to see him just staring at Dorian. He can see his eyes now. They’re pale and have heavy bags underneath them. His skin and hair is pale, as is his expression. He flicks his eyes away when Dorian looks at them, and he instantly feels bad.

“Thank you, Cole.” He says, trying to put his genuine gratitude in the few words.

Cole holds out the bag. Dorian takes it looks through it to find a container of stew and some bread. There’s a note on top of the container with microwaving instructions. It’s signed with a picture of a cat. Cute.

“His phone number is on the paper.” Cole says, and in the moment Dorian takes to look down at the paper again, he’s gone.

A warm feeling blooms in Dorian’s emotions, between the exhaustion and wear. People don’t do nice things for him. Well, that’s not true.  He certainly has acquaintances that really do try to do nice things for him, but rarely are they this thoughtful. He thinks of Lavellan, and the night they spent together a week ago.

He chuckles. ‘Spent the night together’ typically refers to sex, but for once Dorian can say he did not immediately fuck the first charming stranger who showed interest in him.

He warms up a bowl of stew and the microwave and tears of a chunk of bread. The note says it’s venison stew, with thickly cut carrots and potato. The bread is foreign to him, thick and sweet. He drinks a glass of wine with this impromptu meal, and falls back asleep on his couch.

It’s not till he’s already falling asleep that he thinks about the phone number. It’s not till he is lying haphazardly in the dark, eyes closed, that he thinks about the weight of Lavellan on his chest as, the warmth of his body, comfortable, intimate in a way Dorian has never really felt before.

He’s asleep before he can dwell on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit I don't remember much from my short study of funeral services, don't quote me on this stuff. Granted, the industry stuff is probably correct, and when we get to the accounting bit you can probably quote me. 
> 
> I ship Josephine/Leliana hardcore I will fight you
> 
> Cole exhibits many traits of autism throughout the game so I head canon him as autistic, but also an emotional empath, because he honestly reminds me of some empath people I know.


	3. That Time Cassandra Tried to Kill Varric with a Chair?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeing each other at parties is starting to become a habit, and no one knows if that's a good thing or not. Also suits. Very fancy suits.

Dorian doesn’t expect to hear from Lavellan for some time, and is saddened, for once, to see that he’s correct. Though he washes the dishes and container the elf had sent him, leaving them in a bag by the door, the small accountant does not return to claim them, nor does Cole, and the dishes simply sit there, waiting.

Kind of like how Dorian is waiting for this substitute gig to end. Don’t get him wrong, he likes being a coroner, but there’s something about the workload that is slowly killing him. Plus, Merrill isn’t doing too well on her own, as he expected. It’s unfortunate, because Dorian really wants to see his assistant succeed. She has potential, truly, once you get past how terribly daft she can be. But things tend to pile up on Merrill easily, and she’s not the best leader. The weight of running the parlour on her own had apparently caused her so much distress that her lovely girlfriend had left several angry messages on Dorian’s phone with very explicit warnings.

Vicious.

Thankfully, Cassandra had just called him to say that the city coroner was scheduled to be released from the hospital Thursday. After three weeks, Dorian was thankful to return to his old schedule.

On the day of his return to normalcy, he was happy to find his darling funeral parlour had not burned to ashes in his absence. There were, however, quite a lot of flowers he had never seen before. Odd things in plant pots placed around the building, on tables and shelves. He’s almost run over by Merrill as he enters the door, finding her arms caught around his neck.

“Dorian! You’re back!” She smiles brilliantly, and Dorian chuckles, trying to ignore how uncomfortable he is. Hugs aren’t really his thing, or more so, people hugging him isn’t really _a_ thing. Ever. Which, apparently, Merrill remembers, because she stops the hug almost as quick as she begins it, jumping away from him as if burned. “Oops, sorry. Got a little excited there.” She smiles sheepishly.

“Think nothing of it, Merrill.” Dorian brushes off his clothes, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Do tell, where did all these plants come from?”

“Oh, the flowers? Well I just thought the place was so gloomy without you here, so I thought I’d add some colour.” She looks so happy at her thoughtfulness that Dorian doesn’t have the heart to tell her to get rid of them. Not that they’re not lovely, but he’s not one for change.

But maybe change can be good now and then. Granted, he has a horrible pollen allergy he’ll never admit to, but he’ll work around it.

“They’re lovely, Merrill.” He says earnestly. “Now do catch me up. I trust you’ve been taking care of things?”

“Oh yes!” Merrill babbles off into a grand adventure of explaining every small thing that has happened in the past three weeks, often breaking off into tangents about this and that, but slowly giving Dorian a picture of what he’s missed. She’s particularly happy to explain how every single body that fell into their hands died, and how she pieced them back together, as if she was making up for the time he lost being away.

The tales make his eyes light with fondness. There always seemed to be something intimately romantic about mortuary science, like sharing the last moments of someone’s life. Morticians take someone and put them in a place where everyone who loves them can see them one last time. They create one last memory. The coronary work paid better, and was certainly more challenging, but he missed his parlour. Even with his business failing, he wouldn’t give it up for anything.

-

Everyone hates their job, if only a little. It’s just natural. Dorian hates a lot of things, he’s naturally judgemental, and doesn’t tend to care if people hear his opinions. So yes, there are things he hates about his job.

Mortuary work is dower. It’s dark and busy and complicated. It’s odd and taboo, and easy to hate.

But what Dorian hates most about his job is not the dead bodies, the chemicals, or the constant smell of cinnamon air-freshener, which really, he needs to replace, nor is it the tears of countless people over their loved ones, or even the fact that he is a member of a dying industry. No, what he hates is the suits.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves suits. A well-cut suit can do wonders for anyone, regardless of gender. But Dorian is not a plain black tie sort of man. He prefers his suits in garish colours, with embellishments and daring styles. He likes patterned shirts and decorated waistcoats, with glitter and gold. Dorian is a man of fashion, always has been. He likes to look perfect and desirable in his clothes, that’s what makes him comfortable. But those sorts of suits aren’t appropriate for his job.

They say you should never outshine the bride at a wedding. Well, you should never make yourself too noticeable working in a funeral parlour. It’s insensitive, bad taste even. People come to his business saddened and in distress, many holding back emotions they wish they weren’t feeling at all. He cannot dress like his grand self, because his costumers don’t need to see that. He is but an instrument in their grief, and therefore his appearance must be humble, and subtle. He is to shy in the backgrounds and look professional. So, he wears solid coloured shirts in greys, whites, and blues, with black suits that fit, but not tightly enough to show off. He doesn’t even wear anything more than simple make up at work, though he’s often too tired to apply it anyways. He places a solemn look on his skin, and he resents it.

Which is why when he’s given the chance to wear the kind of suits he prefers, he goes all out.

Once again, Merrill is the reason Dorian has time off from work, though this time it is not because she is fighting with her girlfriend. More so it’s due to how easily she can be convinced to do something if she thinks it’s a good thing. Like locking her boss out of his own business so that he can be forced to go to a big party her friend is throwing. Dorian truly blames Josephine. And Leliana. And Cassandra too, probably. They’re all conspiring against him!

But now he’s locked out and must go, so he returns to his apartment and dresses to the nines. He has a lovely suit jacket of a mossy-forest green accented gold and decorated with gold embroidery in swirling patterns of vines and fire. He wears it with a purple shirt and does his makeup with sweeps and glitter. He even changes the laces in his dress shoes to match, as every truly fashionable suit-wearer should, and puts in some jewelled cuff-links (which, as they should, also match the buttons). His hair looks perfect, but that’s nothing new. When he’s finally done dressing, he looks at himself in a full length mirror, and thinks that he looks like _himself_ for the first time in months. Dorian Pavus.

 

The party is being held in the penthouse suite of a very nice hotel, so Dorian’s glad he dressed up. He follows Merrill’s carefully penned instructions, that are not in her handwriting at all, to the hotel and through complicated system of stairs and elevators until his standing in the doorway of a rather lovely room, with a rather familiar person standing in front of him at the door.

“Dorian, you actually came.” The shark-like grin of Leliana is something he tends to avoid.

“You locked me out of my own business.” It’s an assumption, but the unwavering look on her face validates it enough. “Please tell me this isn’t your party.”

“No, it’s Varric’s. Do you remember him?” Leliana waves him inside and shuts the door. The suite is dark, with various colourful lights strung around the room, illuminating crowds of people drinking, and talking and laughing. “You met him at Cassandra’s surprise birthday party last year. He was the one she tried to murder with a chair.”

“Ah, the author who writes all that smut she likes.” Dorian remembers that party fondly because it was terribly amusing. No one in their right mind should ever surprise Cassandra Pentaghast. Despite her being incredibly touched when it was all said and done, she had been very angry with her friends initially, though Dorian suspects most of her anger was posturing. She likes to be seen as intimidating, truly, but everyone knows she’s a really sweetheart on the inside. They just won’t say it to her face. The party had ended with Cassandra trying to murder a very smug dwarf, Varric, with a series of dining room chairs, then trying to arrest the whole party for looking like they were having fun.

“That is the one.” She leads him into a more secluded room where she has apparently taken perch at a table tucked into the corner. Josephine is sitting there with an attractive, broad-shouldered man in an atrociously ugly knit sweater, who Dorian knows to be called Cullen despite never being formally introduced to the man.

“Dorian, you actually attended.” Josephine looks presently surprised, smiling as Leliana takes her place next to her girlfriend.

“I do not know why you all insist on locking me out of my own business every time I try to work.” The mortician says rather indignantly.

“It is for your own good.” Leliana says rather cryptically.

Josephine smiles as if trying to look apologetic. “Breaks are good now and then, as I’m sure you know. Oh, by the way, Solas was asking for you. He should be in Varric’s office.”

Solas? What in the name of the Maker was Solas doing at a party? Dorian nods and drifts away, searching for a glass of brandy before he goes to seek out Solas. Varric’s office is not easy to find among the party goers, but when he does find it he is greeted with the surprising, and slightly happy, sight of not just Solas, but Cole sitting by themselves at a large desk.

“Cole?” Dorian was not expecting to see the odd boy who Lavellan had sent to him weeks ago, at all, but especially not at a party.

“Oh, Dorian!” Cole sounds genuinely happy to see him, which Dorian finds touching, truly. “You’ve fixed all the tired!” Is his follow up, making Dorian remember why he immediately thought of Cole as ‘odd.’

“Dorian.” Solas says in greeting in his own soft voice. He gestures to an open seat and Dorian saunters over to sit elegantly, legs crossed, glass of brandy cradled in his hand.  

“Solas.” Dorian says jovially, though with no real earnestness. “A lovely Antivan lady has told me you wanted to speak to me. I find this hilarious, as I do not think I have ever had a conversation with you without breaking into an, admittedly fun, argument.” He takes a long drink of his brandy, sending Solas a less than amused look.

Solas’s eye twitches in annoyance. Point one for Dorian. “I was told you would be attending this…Party, and merely wished to speak to you. It has been awhile, hasn’t it?”

Yes, it had been awhile under Dorian’s clear wishes. He’s positive that Solas has emotions, and feelings, and what not, other than cold anger, and hatred, and distaste, but he’s never seen them before, so they remain a myth to just about anybody who has ever crossed paths with the elf.

They’d met through Cassandra, as most people do, and immediately had not gotten along. Mostly this was accredited to Solas having an instinctive hatred for the Imperium, and Dorian having absolutely no tact once so ever. The only thing they had ever attempted to discuss civilly is academics. Solas is an anthropologist, specifically focusing his studies on historical anthropology, though with an interest in cultural anthropology he likes to bring out every once and awhile.

He once did an ethnographic observation on the mortuary industry and Cassandra had quickly pointed to Dorian as an interview candidate. He had done the favour simply out of respect for Pentaghast, and because he believes people need to learn to understand his science better. Though the interview had gone well, personal conversation between the two spiralled downward fast. Let’s just say, Dorian wouldn’t willingly invite the man out for tea. Despite that, he will admit the man is a good conversationalist. In another life they met get along swimmingly. But not this one.

“It has indeed been awhile. Tell me, Solas, what are you doing at a social event? I was under the impression that other people find you just as distasteful as you find them?” Dorian will later feel bad about the insult, but right now he’s not nearly drunk enough for this conversation.

“Varric Tethras knows everyone, as I’m sure you are aware of. My attendance is merely out of respect for him.”

“He wanted to see me.” Cole says with a smile.

“That too.” Solas concedes. So, it seems Solas has at least one person in his life he willingly spends time with. This is a new factor in Dorian’s ever growing judgement of him, whether it be positive or negative.

Dorian nods, excepting the answer. They small talk for a few minutes, pretending to be civil. This turns to a slow bickering between the two that both would have to admit they are enjoying. Cole watches patiently the whole time, swinging his legs back and forth and fidgeting with his fingers. Today he is not wearing medical tape, but fingerless gloves knitted in a pale purple. He’s playing with a loose string on one of such gloves when he interrupts Dorian and Solas’s match.

“Angry, gnarling, no not angry. Annoyed. A mask of distaste over the smiles.” Cole monotones in his soft voice. “You two could be friends if not for the masks. But you put on the masks, glue them on so they stick. Why do you do that?” He looks at the two quizzically, tipping his head to the side like a confused cat.

There is a slow moment of silence between the three as Dorian slowly processes what the boy is saying. “Sometimes it easier to dislike someone than to accept their company.” He explains. “If I were to be nice to Solas then…Well, it would put us both in a place where we’d have to ignore the past.”

“This is something neither Dorian or I wish to happen.” Solas agrees. “We are enemies by choice, if nothing else.”

“Pretending to be friends is easier than being friends? That is very knotted.” Cole nods to himself, tapping his fingers against his leg methodically.

Dorian notices his glass is empty of alcohol. He takes this as a good enough reason to leave, so he stands, nodding to Cole and Solas.

“He wanted to see you, but the world has been buzzing for him. Very loud, hurting like a scar on his eyes.” Cole says as he notices Dorian leaving. “He said he’d be in a quiet corner should you wish to see him, which you do. Your eyes move like a bird’s wings. The birds are fearless despite how small they are.” The last bit is directed at Solas, Cole cryptic comment apparently done as he starts talking about sparrows with great interest.

Dorian takes this as a cue to leave.

-

It’s a rather nice party, Dorian thinks. He knows a good amount of the people here, reminding him of Solas’s comment that ‘Varric knows everyone,’ which is certainly verified as Dorian passes by many people he knows in passing, or knows people who know them.

For one, Merrill is here with her Girlfriend, having arrived late after locking him out of the funeral parlour and putting someone else on call for the night. She’s sitting on Isabela’s lap on a couch with a slightly familiar group of people Dorian remembers to be some of her friends. She waves at him as he passes, smiling brightly. She looks nice out of her work clothes, in a lovely white dress with bright yellow flowers on it and a blood red sash.

The Iron Bull is here, without the Chargers this time. Dorian purposely avoids him tonight merely to avoid teasing about the last time they saw each other.

And then Varric, of course, is at his own party. Dorian suspects they won’t remember each other well, having only met one night several months ago, but he is still a familiar face.

Oh, and then there’s the bundle of giggles that barrels into him and jumps on his back. “You didn’t tell me you were comin’ to this party!” Sera practically shouts in his ear.

“It was against my will, I assure you.” He attempts to disentangle himself from the blonde elf, who is attempting to steal his newly acquired drink from her position on his back.

“What, did Sunshine have another fight with her tits?” Sera snorts, getting off his back so she can laugh to his face.

“No, her and Isabela are here tonight.” Dorian says, amused and assuming that by ‘her tits’ Sera meant the girlfriend and not Merrill’s literal breasts.

“Booo.” Sera sticks out her tongue at him. “Whateva, I found myself someone way more fun.” She had given up on her flirtation with Merrill months ago, but Dorian wasn’t going to point it out. “She makes things go boom! Speaking of bits, you havin’ it off with Inqy, Trousers? ‘Cause I swear if you hurt him I’ll shove an arrow so far up your arse you’ll be tastin’ metal for the rest of yourself.” There’s nothing serious about Sera, but she does have a nasty edge to her reflected as she threatens Dorian.

“Why would you think-“

“Anyways I got a box of lizards with Varric’s name on them, bye!” Sera doesn’t let him question her assumptions about him and Lavellan, too busy running off to go cause mischief, presumably.

Dorian watches her leave, thinking about her threat. Why would she assume he and Lavellan were having relations? They had not seen each other since her party. He is reminded of Cole cryptic message. _‘He said he’d be in a quiet corner should you wish to see him’_ , Dorian now understands who Cole was talking about. His eyes move to the corners of the room. Despite being just a hotel suite it is quite spacious. The sitting room he’s been standing in is small, though and loud. He leaves to search.

It is not ten minutes later that he finds the small elf that has crept into his thoughts for weeks past sitting in the corner of a rather empty media room. He’s not wearing a suit this time, but with that he looks more formal than he had the last Dorian saw him. He is wearing a tunic of a pale purple colour, embroidered with jewels and intricate designs. He only wears black dress pants underneath, and has removed his shoes so that he may draw his feet up on the sofa, sitting with his legs crossed.

He’s reading a book, a heavy volume with yellowing pages. Dorian fights back a smile when he sets eyes on Lavellan, striding towards him. He stands in front of the man, waiting the full 60 seconds it takes for the elf to look up, his face immediately flushing.

“Dorian! How long have you been standing there?” He looks embarrassed for a moment before he smiles.

“Not long. May I sit?” Lavellan nods and Dorian takes a seat next to the elf, who shuffles over a bit to make room.

“How was your substitute coroner gig? It just ended, right?” Lavellan asks, closing his book and setting it to the side.

“Interesting, to say the least. I haven’t had to examine bodies like that for years now. Tiring, as well. I will not miss it.” Dorian takes a long drink at the thought of substituting again. “Thank you, by the way, for sending me dinner. I had been forgetting to take care of myself.” He looks at Lavellan with absolute fondness.

“Oh right, that.” Lavellan flushes all the way to his ears, running a hand through his hair in embarrassment. “I’m sorry I couldn’t deliver it in person, but this is a very busy season for me, preparing for tax season and all.”

“Think nothing of it, darling. It was a very sweet gesture nevertheless.” Dorian decides that he very much likes the look on Lavellan’s face when he’s complimented. So, he decides to compliment him more. “You look quite beautiful tonight.”

“You as well. This,” He gestures to Dorian’s glittery, golden ensemble, “Suits you much more than your work clothes. Well, I assume what you were wearing when we last met were work clothes. Mine were.”

“You are correct. I dress rather plain for work, it’s dreadful, really, depriving the world of seeing all that is Dorian Pavus.” He sighs dramatically.

Lavellan chuckles. “Well, they still get you, just not the real you.”

“Tis a shame, truly.” Dorian looks down at the elf in surprise as he leans against Dorian’s shoulder.

“I missed you…” He says quietly, as if afraid to admit it. Dorian is so stunned he does not move.

They sit in silence for the longest time. Dorian does not know what to say, and is happy Lavellan does not push the subject.

Minutes pass with Dorian letting his mind wander around the room. When he finally speaks, he very purposely starts a new line of dialogue. “I can’t for the life of me understand why anyone would wear a shirt like that in public.”

Lavellan follows Dorian’s line of sight to dwarven man wearing a garish red shirt patterned with pictures of flowers and octopi.

“It’s surprising how far Varric is willing to go to make himself see inhospitable.” Is Lavellan’s comment.

“ _That’s_ Varric?” Now that Dorian thinks about it, the dwarf does look familiar.

“Yes, have you not met him before? I assumed…Well, since this is _his_ party…”

“We met only once, at Cassandra’s surprise birthday party. Honestly, my memories of that night are rather hazy.” They both continue to stare at Varric as he converses with Merrill’s group of friends, who have congregated into the media room.

“Was that the one where Cassandra tried to kill Varric with a chair?” Lavellan asks, taking his eyes off of Varric to look up at Dorian.

“That would be the one.”

“Ah, Sera talks about that night all the time. Sounded like a good party.” Lavellan settles back against Dorian’s shoulder, moving closer so he can rest against the mortician.

“Not for Varric.” Dorian mutters, and the two chuckle. Dorian’s hand wanders up to Lavellan’s head, fingers slowly tangling into the soft tresses. The elf hums softly, leaning into the touch.

The two fall into a comfortable silence, merely enjoying each other’s company. It’s nice, Dorian thinks, to spend time with someone without having to posture. He never feels the need to perform in front of Lavellan, which is oddly comforting to him.

“Hey, Inquisitor! You up for a game of Wicked Grace?” Varric’s voices cuts their peaceful silence, though Lavellan doesn’t seem to bothered by it.

Instead, the elf gives Varric a rather look of done. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Get over it. Come on, you need to socialise a bit. You too, Sparkler.” The dwarf looks at Dorian, giving him a look that suggests he knows more about Dorian than one would think. Dorian and Lavellan share a look before shrugging and following Varric to his dining room.

Chairs are pulled up and drinks are poured, and soon they’ve got a large gathering of people. No one has convinced Leliana or Cassandra to play, but Cullen and Josephine join the table, as well as Bull and Sera. Then Merrill comes wandering over, smiling brightly and attempting to sit next to Dorian before Isabela picks her up and sets her on her lap. A few more of Varric’s friends take a seat at the table and the game is on.

Honestly, Dorian’s favourite part about card games is always the drinking. He’s a shit gambler, but alcohol never fails him. Tonight, though, as him and Lavellan sit and play the game Dorian does not drink much. Maybe it’s because Lavellan refuses to drink from anything but his own hip flask, or maybe it’s because he’s about 50% sure Sera keeps putting packets of salt in everyone’s drinks.

Still, he finds himself having fun without a glass in his hand. It’s interesting to watch how people interact around others. Lavellan is much quieter with this crowd, but sharper and wittier with his words. When he speaks he speaks with sarcasm, especially to those he knows. As the night gets later and later, Dorian watches him open up, seeming to enjoy himself.

Merrill is much happier around Isabela, Dorian notices. She smiles more and giggles and tends to make more sense when she talks. He’s happy to see his assistant happy. Sometimes she seems so worried… She introduces Dorian to all her friends, and seems genuinely happy to share this part of her life with her boss. It’s touching.

Though Cassandra does not play, she hovers by the table and observes and actually laughs for once, which Dorian doesn’t think he’s ever seen her do. She banters with Varric and follows along with tales.

Varric seems happy just to have his friends together. He introduces everyone by nickname and comments as they each tell stories.

Sera gets absolutely pissed, but that’s nothing new. What Dorian sees, though, is more of her affectionate relationship with Lavellan. She takes frequent breaks from drinking to play with his hair and poke his face, then to stick her tongue out at Dorian and cackle.

Well past midnight, the game winds down as Josephine proves to be far too good at card games to be fair. Many start on their way home, Merrill telling Dorian she’ll see him on Monday when he’s allowed back in the building. The table is empty except for Lavellan and Dorian, the latter’s arm slung around the former’s shoulder, both sitting so close they may as well be sharing a chair.

“Will you be heading home soon?” Lavellan asks, gazing up at Dorian with tired eyes.

“I should.” Dorian absentmindedly plays with Lavellan’s fingers, thinking about how it’s a long walk back to his apartment.

“I should as well. Hopefully Solas drove Cole home, I didn’t plan to stay this long.”

“They took his cat from him, so he feels sad. The cat misses him as well, but not the socks…” A soft voice says almost directly behind Dorian’s ear. He only jumps a little, but it does not save his dignity much.

“Hello, Cole.” Lavellan smiles, turning to look at the young man. “Sorry we’ve been here so long. I got distracted.”

“It’s alright, Solas kept me company. He left, but wishes you his best…And Dorian his worst, I do not know what he means by that.” Cole’s face scrunches up in thought.

“You know Solas?” Lavellan looks at Dorian with a quirked eyebrow. “I didn’t know you two were friends.”

“We’re not really friends.” Dorian clarifies. “More like…Business acquaintances.”

“Ah.” Lavellan nods thoughtfully. He then stretches, nuzzling his head against Dorian’s chest with a soft, mewl-like yawn. “It’s very late. As much as I hate to leave, I do not want to fall asleep on the road.” He pouts and looks at Dorian. “I will actually try to visit you, I promise, before we see each other randomly at another party.”

“I will hold you to that.” Dorian grins, taking one of the elf’s hands and raising it to his lips. “’Till we meet again.” He presses a soft kiss to Lavellan’s knuckles, watching as the small man in his arms blushes.

“Flutter, flutter, flutter…” Cole murmurs.

Lavellan flushes and scrambles to his feet. “We should get going. Goodnight Dorian…” He makes eye contact with the man, biting his lip in thought, before leaning forward and quickly placing a kiss on Dorian’s cheek. Then he’s literally running for the door, Cole following along after him.

Dorian’s mind is hazy with thoughts. He doesn’t quite know how to take his relationship with the small accountant elf that has interrupted his thoughts for the threeish weeks they have known one another. The feeling of his lips lingers on Dorian’s cheek. The feeling of their hands entwined replays in his mind like a broken record.

“That was _adorable!_ ” He hears someone say behind him with a giggle.

“Quite, Kitten.” Follows another voice.  

Though Dorian agrees, he glares at Isabela and Merrill, who are watching him from the doorway, a huge grin on Merrill’s face. “You saw nothing.” He points a threatening finger at the two before gathering his thoughts and leaving the room.

As he strides for the door, Dorian tries not to think about how close he feels to having a real romantic relationship, does not think of asking Lavellan out on a date, pushes away the thought of even having sex with the man for fear he will break his own heart. No, he thinks of none of these things, pushing them from his mind. Instead, he thinks of tax season, because those worries balance out the personal ones.

Shit. He needs a drink. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to go a whole different way with a murder plot, and a serial killer, and like a lot of fluff, but it got too stupid so that's not happening...Legit, there will be no serial killer plot, I promise.
> 
> I might drawn Dorian's suit because I really like the design idea...My words don't do it justice. 
> 
> These days I only see my friends every few months by attending parties where we cuddle and tend to accidentally play tabletop RPGs where all my characters do really mundane things and it gets stupid real fast and also drunk real fast. At this point I just imagine everyone else's friendships are this way, so parties are like a thing. 
> 
> Everyone should worry about tax season. Tax season is a seriously scary thing. 
> 
> There were no cats in this chapter! Travesty! The next chapter will have to have cats, now, no choice there.


	4. Strange Men in Your Bed?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much fluff. Many regrets, none of them mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This shouldn't come as a surprise, since this is a story about a mortician, but this chapter describes a dead body. It actually went into much more detail in the original draft, but still warnings for mentions of domestic abuse and dead bodies.

She was so young…Not even old enough to receive her vallaslin, the young Dalish girl was laid out on Dorian’s examination table, head bent at an inhumanly awkward angle, her face caved in, bludgeoned with what reports say were a metal baseball bat.

Over the years, Dorian has learned to detach himself from his emotions when he’s working. He can feel as bad as he wants for this girl, but when it comes down to it he knows he has to put this girl back together, take her face and mold it to shape, remove the last traces of life from her body so she may be properly buried.

“What happened to her?” A voice says from the back of the room. Dorian feels worn. He doesn’t look behind him, just continues to work.

“Bad choice in boyfriends.” He says bitterly. He’d gotten the police report along with the girl, sent to him after she’d been examined by the coroner. Her body was already preserved to last long enough for examination, but coroners don’t do the cosmetics, that’s his job. Her body is littered with signs of abuse; bruises, burns, cuts, the faint outline of a hand on her neck, small marks left behind by digging fingernails.

“I’m sorry.” Dorian is finally focused enough to recognise the voice. He turns to look at Lavellan, standing before him dressed in a suit and tie, a leather coat over him and riding gloves on his hands. “This must not be an easy job for you.”

“Hello.” Dorian says instead of responding about the girl.

“Hello, Dorian.” Lavellan smiles softly. “Work ended early today so I decided to stop by and make sure you eat dinner, walk you home, that sort of thing.”

“How noble of you.” Dorian offers a weak smile. He feels exhausted. “I’m afraid I have to finish this before I leave, though. It’s unfair for you to wait.”

Lavellan just shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. I have some files to look over. Just tell me when you’re done.” He leaves the room, but Dorian hears the creaky door of his office open and the flicking of light switch. He turns back to the girl. Her eyes are still half-open; blank, grey, and dead.

Eyes have never felt so haunting before, and he doesn’t know why they do now. He takes a moment to compose himself, then starts working again, methodical and quick, with surgical precision. He doesn’t think. Thinking makes things feel heavy, and he’s too tired for this. Those eyes…

-

It takes an hour before he has finished with the Dalish girl, and can store her away for the night, for her funeral on Sunday. He cleans up and goes to find if Lavellan really waited for him. He hopes he did, but knows better than to really think someone would wait an hour for him for any reason. Yet, the elf is sitting in Dorian’s office, a laptop in front of him and a series of documents spread out over the desk, a thin pair of glasses perching on the end of his nose as he carefully examines his work.

He doesn’t notice Dorian the man leans against the doorway, crossing his arms, and examining the smaller man with adoring amusement, a warm feeling in his chest. Lavellan looks so content as he types away, fingers moving swiftly over the keys, eyes flicking about. His concentration is both adorable, and beautiful, and Dorian is fine just observing.

The accountant eventually looks up, though, breaking the spell, and blushing scarlet as he notices the smiling Tevinter man before him. “Ah, Dorian! How long have you been…uh…” He stumbles on his words as Dorian smirks lazily, sauntering slowly to his desk.

“Long enough.” He drawls, placing a hand on the dark wood of the desk to lean closer to the blushing elf. Just as quick as he starts, though, he straightens and turns to his coat rack to retrieve his suit jacket. “I finished with my work for the night, if you’re still intent on playing the shining knight for me.”

Lavellan chuckles and packs away his work. “I’d be honoured.”

Dorian normally walks from his funeral parlour to his apartment. Location is key, and he chose an apartment in the same neighbourhood as his business for a reason.

But Lavellan owns a motorcycle, and he offers Dorian a ride. Dorian’s never ridden a motorcycle before, and he’s too tired to protest, so he gets on the back of the bike behind Lavellan and tries not to fall asleep as they ride. Thankfully, Lavellan already knows where he lives, so he doesn’t have to give him an address.

He lets Lavellan park in his unused parking space and the shorter man leads him up to his apartment. He feels like a bad host when the elf deposits him on the couch and wanders into his kitchen, but he also feels like life isn’t worth living without a bottle in his hand, so he wanders to his liquor cabinet and removes a bottle of brandy, pouring himself a drink and swallowing it down too quick to enjoy it.

He’s halfway through his third drink, which he’s now actually taking his time with, when Lavellan returns, holding a plate.

“You’re an alcoholic.” He states, taking a seat next to Dorian and trading the glass for the plate.

“Did you figure that out on your own, or did someone tell you?” Dorian doesn’t protest, staring down at the plate. There’s a fork in his hand and he’s having trouble remembering how it got there.

“Josie told me.” Lavellan admits. He caps the brandy and puts it back in the liquor cabinet. “But I know you must have a good reason.”

“How do you figure that?” Lavellan has made him an omelette, not surprising as he has hardly a thing in his refrigerator. He hasn’t had time to go shopping at all. He eats, feeling his stomach both sigh in relief, and protest at the same time.

“Because I’ve only ever seen you drink with a frown on your lips.” Lavellan has seen him drink twice, so Dorian wonders how he got this conclusion, but he was right regardless. Dorian does not drink happy. “Besides, no one acquires an addiction without reason.” He looks at his own hands and the implications there are clear, but Dorian does not ask.

In minutes of silence, Dorian stares across his living room, the dead girl’s eyes flashing in his own. Suddenly there’s no more food on the plate and he realises he has eaten all of it, though he doesn’t remember eating. The plate is removed from his hands, though.

“I’ll clean this up.” A voice says. Dorian falls back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Time passes, though he doesn’t really notice. There’s a weight next to him, a hand on his. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, just the eyes. The blank, grey eyes.

-

He awakens to movement below him. It’s night still, the room is dark., and cold because Dorian forgot to turn the heat on. But he’s lying against something warm and soft…And moving. Dorian groans, opening his eyes to peer into the dark.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” Lavellan. Dorian would have made a suggestive comment if he wasn’t so damn tired. He realises he had been laying on the elf’s lap, his arms pillowed under the man’s thighs. “My legs were falling asleep. It’s fine, go back to sleep.” A hand runs through his hair.

The feeling is soothing, and it seems so simple to just let himself fall into the pleasing scratch of nails agains this scalp, but somewhere in his foggy head Dorian makes a different decision. He shakes his head and sits up, extracting himself from around the elf, who looks a little sad at the loss of the Dorian in his lap. “I have a bedroom.” He mumbles.

Lavellan blushes. “You were so tired, I didn’t want to make you move.”

Dorian makes an indistinguishable noise, standing shakily. His head feels heavy, and his eyes are blurry. He doesn’t think when he scoops the small accountant into his arms and carries him in his bedroom, depositing him on the bed before falling next to him.

“Better.” He mumbles, wrapping his arms around Lavellan and tugging him to his chest as one would a pillow or a stuffed animal. His face nestles into the crook of the elf’s neck, lips dangerously close to quite sensitive ears.

Lavellan flushes scarlet, though it’s hard to see under his dark skin, in the blackness of the room. They’re both lying atop Dorian’s bed, not under the covers, which makes the room still cold, though he’s convinced the shiver wracking is body is a combination of exhaustion and being physically close to an attractive Tevinter man more than temperature.

Lavellan considers going home. It’s late and cold, and he doesn’t want to ride his motorcycle back home, not right now. Maybe if Dorian hadn’t fallen asleep on him in the living room…No, he’ll stay. It only takes a moment for Dorian to go back to sleep, so Lavellan slow extracts himself from his arms and takes his time removing his suit so it doesn’t get wrinkled, leaving himself in his underwear. He removes Dorian’s shoes and his shirt, because no one wants shoes on their bed, and it’s a nice shirt. He refuses to remove Dorian’s pants, despite knowing that those would probably get annoyingly wrinkled during sleep too, but he doesn’t think the act would even been possible without waking the man up.

He begrudges himself to pull the sheets up and cover him and Dorian in blankets, pulling the pillows down closer to their heads because Dorian had decided to deposit himself in the middle of the bed, about a foot away from the headboard. There’s a moment when the elf thinks of sleeping as far away from the man as possible, but it’s cold, and Lavellan is a sucker for cuddling. He lies close to Dorian, rest his head against the man’s bare chest. He can feel the warmth of Dorian’s body heat as the distant thrum of his heart echoes in Lavellan’s head.

Arms wrap around Lavellan, tugging him even closer. He hasn’t slept this quickly in years.

-

The room is distorted in the morning sun. There is a moment where the colours around him are too bright, like someone upped the contrast specifically so he can see the outline of everything in the room he’s lying in. It’s not his room. For a moment, he thinks of panicking, but he’s still groggy from the sleep, so he just closes his eyes again. Slowly his proprioception comes back to him, and he can feel every limb in his body…And every limb wrapped around him.

He remembers now. Dorian. He rolls over so he’s facing the man, nuzzling his face into the crook of the mortician’s neck. The room is bed is warm with their shared body heat, and the sun sliding through the windows. Dorian’s bedsheets are soft, not cotton or silk, but another fabric of a higher quality. Later, Lavellan will question how a man with a failing business can afford such nice sheets.

They lie in the exact middle of the bed, with Dorian’s arms holding Lavellan to his chest. Since Lavellan had undressed them, his bare legs were wrapped around Dorian’s slacks, which was an odd feeling, but he also has the fortune to be pressed against a well sculpted chest. Lavellan doesn’t want to think that Dorian keeps his strength up so he can dig graves and carry around dead bodies, but he thinks about it anyway.

Dorian nuzzles into Lavellan’s hair, making the elf squirm in surprise, briefly considering getting out of bed before Dorian is awake, or at least distancing himself, but too late, Dorian is groaning in a ‘why the fuck am I awake?’ sort of way, his hold on Lavellan all of a sudden much tighter.

“Mmm..Do that- hmm?” He opens his eyes, peering at Lavellan through his disrupted REM cycle. “ ’Ellan?” He murmurs, voice hoarse with sleep.

Lavellan smiles softly. “Morning.” He tries not to look awkward, but they’re both shirtless in Dorian’s bed, and they certainly didn’t get into bed that way.

Dorian looks down, examining how his body is entwined with the elf’s. He doesn’t feel hungover, and doesn’t remember drinking much the night before… “Please tell me I didn’t drunkenly have sex with you and forget about it?” He would want to remember that.

The smaller man chuckles softly. “You fell asleep on your couch with me as your pillow and when I tried to move you grumbled and dragged me to your bedroom. Very forward of you, not that I’m complaining.”

Dorian groans, hiding his face in Lavellan’s hair. “That’s not any less embarrassing.” Though it did make the erection he could feel himself sporting much more awkward.

“It’s fine.”

The mortician looks down at their bodies, finding Lavellan’s bare, bar a pair of boxers, and himself in only his dress pants. He groans. “Please tell me I had the dignity to undress myself?” He feels like he already knows the answer.

“No, I did that.” Lavellan doesn’t seem the little bit annoyed recounting the night before. Actually, he looks quite amused when Dorian removes his head to look at him.

He means to make a quip about undressing, something suggestive and teasing, but he doesn’t quite think before speaking. He doesn’t blame the warm body in his arms, per say, but there is a lingering thought in the back of his mind, something along the lines of ‘dammit dorian why do cute guys shut off your tongue’. So he says, “Why did you stay?” in a soft voice, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Lavellan wants to tell the truth, but he falters. Why did he stay? Was it because taking his bike home would be cold and dangerous? Was it for the company? Did he simply just want to cuddle? Moreso, was it that he was worried? Caring was not something he was particularly used too, not for many, at least. “I didn’t want to leave you alone.” He says, a portion of the truth. “You seemed very not okay, I wanted to make sure you woke up okay.”

Dorian stares at the elf with soft, fond eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m not very used to this.” He admits.

“Used to what? Having strange men wake up in your bed?” Lavellan quirks an eyebrow.

Dorian chuckles. “Without fucking their brains out the night before? Yes. Not that most would stay that long.” One night stands typically end before the night itself does.

Lavellan frowns. “That’s rather lonely.”

“What, do you have strange men waking up in your bed on the regular?” Dorian drops his voice to a decidedly seductive tone, leaning closer to the elf’s ear. He grins when said man squirms a little in his arms

“Not like that!” Lavellan giggles. “But yes. I don’t really believe platonic relationships should limit physical contact. It’s pretty normal for me to wake up with Bull or Krem in my bed. Not just men, of course. Sera sleeps over regularly, and vice versa. Josie occasionally, too. Cassandra once, but don’t tell anyone I said that. And Cole and I habitually wake up in the same bed, but that’s not special or anything, we’re roommates, after all.”

“I didn’t know that.” That would explain why Lavellan sent Cole with the note. Aaaand why he was talking about driving Cole home…

“Oh, I didn’t tell you? Sorry, I must have just assumed…I talk about Cole a lot, so…”

“You care about him a lot, don’t you?” Dorian doesn’t want to feel jealous, but he does. He instinctively wraps his arms tighter around Lavellan, tugging him closer to his chest.

“Oh, yes. At this point he’s practically my son. If he was a bit younger and I a bit older I would have adopted him, truly. He was living in a really abusive environment when I met him. No one around him understood him, and he was in a bad place…Like me. So he lives with me and does all the things I can’t, and I take care of rent, things like that. Him and Sera are my best friends…Really…”

“What sort of…?” Dorian lets the question hang in the air.

“Oh, um…I guess this would come up eventually. You know how I don’t, um, talk to people? Or make eye contact?” Lavellan says hesitantly. Dorian nods. “Well, it’s because I’m very afraid…Of people.” Oh. Dorian feels his eyebrows shoot up. “My doctor calls it socialphobia. I used to think it was a curse…”

“I’m sorry, that must be very difficult for you.” Dorian’s grip on Lavellan tightens.

“It’s gotten better over the years, but I still have trouble doing things like going grocery shopping and getting the mail. Cole does that for me.” The small accountant nuzzles against Dorian’s neck. “So, you don’t mind that I stayed? You were so tired last night, I couldn’t really ask.”

“It’s a happy surprise to wake up next to you.” Dorian surprises himself with the amount of honesty in his words.

“Well then I will not let my thoughts dwell on it.” Lavellan settles against Dorian’s chest, raising a hand to grab the other’s. “Though, I do suggest next time we go to my home, as I actually have food in my apartment.”

Dorian grins at the idea of a ‘next time’. He’s forgotten about the blank, dead eyes.

-

Today being another forced day-off, Dorian has the time to lay in bed and just talk with Lavellan. It’s nice, though Dorian is afraid to admit it. He keeps thinking that he doesn’t have nice relationships with nice young men with nice bright smiles and nice soft hair. He doesn’t deserve the domesticity of sitting in bed on a Saturday morning, a small elf wrapped around him under the guise of wanting body heat, a hand buried in his dark hair.

Lavellan doesn’t seem to notice his unease, though. He just continues talking, nuzzling his way along Dorian’s chest with apparent fascination with the slow thrum of the mortician’s heart. They trade stories back and forth like dinner date conversation, getting to know one another despite being half naked in Dorian’s bed.

They finally get up after an hour, the early afternoon shifting into the room and annoying Dorian’s eyes. After two quick showers and a very lacklustre breakfast, Lavellan drags Dorian to the supermarket, probably because of the empty kitchen that caused that lacklustre breakfast.

Lavellan is amazing to watch as he leads Dorian around the store, plucking food necessities off shelves and examining them with careful, calculating eyes.

“Tell me, darling, why do they call you Inquisitor?” Dorian asks whilst Lavellan examines two different meat prices. He watches in amusement as the tips of the elf’s pointy ears flush.

“You’ll have to ask Varric about that one.” He says, trying to sound disinterested, but his embarrassment is evident even in the tone. “He’s the one who came up with it.”

“He does seem fond of nicknames.” Dorian chuckles. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him call someone by their given name.”

“There are a few who don’t have nicknames. I’ve caught them once and awhile. Like his friend, Hawke. And…Aveline, I think? I don’t really know her. And he only ever calls Cassandra by her titles. I don’t think he dares to give her a nickname.”

“Well she did try to kill him.” Dorian presses a finger to his chin thoughfully.

“Oh, she does that with everyone.” Lavellan waves off the thought.

“True.” They both laugh, and Dorian wonders how they spent so longing sharing the same friends without ever meeting. Though, the fact that Dorian has been avoiding social contact for the longest time, and Lavellan has an internal fear of people probably has something to do with it. Whelp, they’re friends now.

They spend an hour in the supermarket, Lavellan not even seeming to pay much attention to Dorian other than to ask him short, clipped questions about food preferences as he strides around the store. With a pile of coupons and five minutes on a calculator, he’s bought Dorian two weeks worth of food for about twenty-five dollars, though Dorian is the one who has to make the transaction whilst Lavellan waits outside, nervously wringing his fingers and rocking on the balls of his feet.

Once they’re walking back to the apartment with bags in their arms, Dorian thinks about the perks of knowing an accountant, whose budgeting skills are apparently amazing. Later, when they’re standing in Dorian’s kitchen and Lavellan is showing Dorian how to properly chop up vegetables, he thinks about how nice it is to do something so domestic with someone. When they’re sitting on the couch and eating stir fry he thinks about how comfortable he is with Lavellan at his side, even if they’re just close, not even touching.

When he’s standing in his own doorway, pulling Lavellan close to leave a kiss on the crown of his head, he thinks he’s in love. And that’s terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've never actually cared about an AU enough to write spin offs in the same universe, but my mind makes decisions of it's own and there are plans in the works for at least two short stories to go along with this one. One of these stories is about (mostly) Cole (and Lavellan) (And also Solas) and the other is about Merrill and Isabela. I was going to write one about Lavellan and Krem but I just figured I'll fit it into the main story. 
> 
> I'm also working on a very complicated, annoyingly historically accurate 1920's America Dragon Age II AU, so my writing time is divided. Also I just don't care about my chapter posting schedules, honest I have more important things in my life.  
> UPDATE: So I broke my laptop and due to an error I didn't back up this fic, so until I get it fixed I can't access the work I already did on the last chapter, so this won't be updated till at least April...


	5. They Used to Date?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much development for our two protagonists. Much anger for Solas.

“And then Zevran walked off to go talk to his spy friend, but he left his boyfriend behind, and I was talking to him, and he’s the fucking Hero of Fereldan, like what the shit? How do I score like that? How did Zev even score like that?”

“Well, if we tag team with Hawke I think we might be able to bag him together. The Hero of Kirkwall isn’t as good, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Hawke is gay as fuck, and Fenris would sooner rip off his own dick then let Hawke go.”

Merrill breaks into a fit of giggles, leaving Dorian to sigh.

“Don’t you have better things to do, Isabela?” He sighs, looking at the girl who is currently lying across Merrill’s desk as the smaller elven girl attempts to eat her lunch.

“Not really.” Isabela shrugs and examines her nails. “There’s nothing better than spending time with Merrill.” Said elf giggles and blushes, smiling as Isabela winks at her.

“Well at least change the subject of your gossip. I don’t want to hear tell of your escapades with your ex-lover and his famous elven boyfriend.” Dorian rolls his eyes, trying to focus on the piles of forms he’s trying to fill out.

“What, you’re only interested in one elf? I thought you had a type.” Isabela snarks. Dorian isn’t one to blush, but if he was his face would be red right now. As it is, he just rolls his eyes again.

“Mind your own business before I kick you out of the building.” He glares at his assistant’s girlfriend, matching her smirk with annoyance.

She scoffs, sitting up on the desk. “You just don’t want to talk about your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just friends.”

“With benefits?” Isabela raises an eyebrow, leaning closer to Dorian.

Dorian scowls. “Nothing quite so base as that.” Not that he’s worthy of even a one night stand with someone actually kind and interesting. “Lavellan and I maintain a close acquaintanceship, nothing more.”  
  
Isabela straight up cackles, kicking her legs in the air. “You fucking liar. We all saw you at Varric’s party, sparkles, you wanna tap that so damn bad, don’t you?”

“She’s kind of right, Dorian.” Merrill chimes in with her soft, accented voice. “Your friend looks at you like your some sort of fantastic person.” … “Not that you-“

“Which everyone knows you’re not.” Adds Isabela before Merrill can reword her sentence. “You’re horrible.”

“Thanks.” Dorian deadpans, glaring at both women.

“See, he can’t deny it!” Isabela gesticulates wildly at Dorian. “And he fucking knows he wants to fuck that friend of his. Hell, who wouldn’t? His arms are like a work of damn art!”

Dorian huffs, trying to focus on his work.

“I talked to him at Varric’s party, he was very nice and all.” Merrill adds, nodding solemnly. “I haven’t talked to another Dalish elf in a long while…Plus he really _does_ have nice arms.”

“SEE even Merrill noticed!”

Dorian sighs, burying his face in his arms. “Merrill, dear, take your girlfriend elsewhere before I rip her tongue out.” He asks very politely, though obviously on the last of his patience.

“I know where the door is.” Isabela huffs. “Bye, Kitten.” She pecks Merrill on the cheek. “See you at the Hanged Man tonight.” She winks with no subtly at all as she passes Dorian’s desk. “Good luck with your boy-toy!”

She’s out the door before Dorian can even growl.

He sighs. “It’s too early for this. I’m going to get a drink, you want anything, Merrill?”

“Alcohol this early? Dorian it’s still morning…” Merrill’s eyebrows furrow together as she looks at her boss.

“No, peanut, I meant like some tea.” Dorian looks at his employee with complete and utter done.

Merrill’s face reddens in embarrassment. “Oh…Um, could you get me a scone or something? I skipped breakfast…”

“Of course.” Dorian smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He turns for the door, but a hand on his arm stops him.

Merrill refuses to meet his eyes as she twiddles her thumbs and blushes nervously. “I know it’s not really my place to say, but…You’ve seemed a lot…Um…Bette- Happier since you met that nice friend of yours. I’m just…I’m glad you’re happy.” She smiles shakily. “I’ll just um…Leave you alone.” She runs away before he can respond.

The sentiment feels rather warm in his chest.

-

The coffee house three blocks over was not Dorian’s preferred place to acquire a drink, but bars aren’t typically this early in the day, and the good café was more than four blocks away, so he’d settle for decent.

And decent was kind of pushing it. This was more of a hole in the wall than anything else. The only people inside were a group of dying college students, a man dressed in too many layers and clinging to his cup like he’s on withdrawal and…Solas?

If dorian’s being honest, not only does he never want to see Solas again, but right now is probably the worst time for them to run into one another. His stay is sour already, with Isabela’s prying comments and his lingering hangover, he doesn’t need some egg screwing it up.

But the door opens with the chime of a bell and Solas looks up from his ever-present laptop almost immediately, eyes locking with Dorian’s.

Whelp, they’re obligated to make small talk now…Shit.

“Good morning, Solas.” Dorian smiles, sauntering over to the man’s table in the corner, pressing a hand on it casually.

“Dorian.” Solas doesn’t bother faking a smile, looking up at the Tevinter man with a familiar face of disdain. “What do I owe this pleasure?” something about the man’s voice is more bitter than normal, not that Dorian cares. If Solas is having a bad day, that makes it a good day for the mortician.

“Well, my darling friend,” Dorian starts with no guise on his sarcasm, waving his hand dramatically as he gestures to the room around them, “Interesting detail; this is a public location, and I free to partake in its wares at my own leisure.”

Solas is unamused.

Dorian sighs with his same dramatic flair. “It is too early in the morning for this.” He grumbles. “I’m just getting some coffee for me and my assistant, seeing as it’s a heavy workload day. Will you deny me my caffeine, dear friend o’mine?”

“Despite what you think, Dorian, the world does not revolve around you, and therefore laws are not specifically written to fit your life. I do not control your intake of coffee.” Solas deadpans.

The mortician shrugs. “Semantics, semantics. I’m not looking for a fight or anything, Solas, can we just move this along.”

Solas rolls his eyes and turns back to his laptop. “I do not care, Dorian. Do me a favour and leave me alone.”

“Be civil for once, Solas. Indulge me, yes? What were you drinking? I’ll buy you another cup.” Dorian offers, genuine and courteous, trying to make himself look innocent and apologetic. Solas looks rightfully confused, but tells him his coffee order nonetheless, and Dorian finally goes to the front to order a scone for Merrill and two cups of tea, completely ignoring the complicated description Solas gave him.

Dorian often says he wouldn’t invite Solas out to tea, and will now admit that’s a flat out lie. He would love to invite Solas to tea. It would be the single most amusing day of his life if he were to invite Solas to tea. It would be a pure and beautiful afternoon that he would treasure till his own death.

Solas takes the cup Dorian hands to him and drinks it without even looking at it. The look on his face alone as he sips the cup of chai is absolutely hilarious. His face curls up in disgust and he seems to have an inner battle over whether or not he should spit it. His inner battle leads to his shoulders tensing and shaking in anger. Realising he can’t release it from his tongue without getting tea everywhere, the elf begrudgingly swallows his mouthful of betrayal, glowering murderously at Dorian, who by this time is absolutely grinning from ear to ear, taking a moment to sip his own tea like he’s dropping a mic. Check. Your turn Solas.

“Something wrong there, Solas?” He asks with not even an ounce of faux-concern, unable to fight the grin on his lips.

“I hate you so much.” Solas hisses.

Dorian just laughs and bids Solas a cheery goodbye, stepping outside the café, tea in hand, and holding back a fit of laughter. “Jealousy, curling, snarling in his chest. But he knows he’s happier this way.” A voice says at his shoulder, and Dorian applauds himself for not jumping this time.

“Cole.” He nods courteously as the boy falls into step beside him, his self-satisfied look falling to a more curious quirk of an eyebrow. “Were you hiding somewhere during that conversation, or do you just have the innate ability to track other’s feelings?”

“Yes.”

Dorian tries not to glare when he looks at Cole, merely quirking an eyebrow. Today the younger man is sporting a hat with floppy rabbit ears, and a grey knit sweater that is two sizes too large. He clutches the strap of a leather bag in his hands, knuckles peeking out pale, white, from beneath his pink, fingerless gloves.

Cole smiles. “You’ve been hurting.”

“Yes, though I don’t see where this talk of envy is coming from. I have no reason to covet the things Solas most certainly does not have.”

“Oh, I was talking about him. He’s jealous of you.” Cole glances away to stare at a tree as they pass by it. “They don’t know how to dance, do they?” He murmurs, seemingly to himself.

Dorian scoffs. “Of course, Solas is jealous of me. Other than my stunningly good looks, and fantastic wit, my assets include not just a failing business, but alcoholism and a hatred for everyone I’ve ever talked too. Not to mention feeding people tea out of spite.” The sarcasm is so heavy in his voice that even Cole recognises it, if only a little.

“Solas doesn’t come over anymore.” Anymore? “It’s because the hurt was too much to bear. He hides the secrets in a silver mask and wears it as an emblem. But then he steps into his life and he _has to feel again_. He’s _too real_ , if _he’s real,_ I’m real, _how am I real_?”

Dorian stares at Cole’s odd play of the pronoun game.

“He thinks it was better to end the heart, but the ache is more painful the more they’re separate. Now he can’t visit…” Cole trails off to watch a flock of birds spread out over the sky. “So I visit him on the way to the market. Maryden lets me hide under his table if I ask nice.”

It takes a moment for Dorian to fully understand the volume of Cole’s words, but when it hits him he skids to a stop. “Wait…You’re saying Lavellan and Solas used to _date_?” He almost chokes on the words. Maker, that was an unpleasant thought.

“He still loves him, but he let the heart end so he could be free.” Cole doesn’t acknowledge Dorian’s response, nor his guffaw. “Now he wants it again and the snakes coil, slither slither hiss.” The tevinter man snaps his mouth shut and starts walking again.

“It’s sad to think that man was romantically involved with Lavellan…” Dorian muses. “And I thought no one could ever love Solas. Shows what I know.” He laughs almost humourlessly.

“He used to be happy. He was happy in the way that he could say he was safe. Then it ended and that feeling wanted to run away. He’s happy now, though, with you.” Cole steps in front of Dorian and walks backwards along the sidewalk, staring at the man through his lashes.

“Where are you even going, Cole?” The mortician asks, eyeing the bag in Cole’s hands.

“The market.”

“The market is in the other direction.”

“But you’re walking this way.” Cole says matter of factly. “I can’t talk to you at the market.”

There’s something oddly sweet about this statement. “What do you do with your time, Cole?” He asks, changing the subject.

Cole’s eyes widen, as if he wasn’t expecting this line of conversation. “Well…I go to market, and I get the mail, and I pick up medicine, and I talk to Solas…”

“Anything else?” Dorian worries this kid’s life is as monotonous as it sounds. He knows his own life is somewhat boring, but he has a business to manage. What’s Cole’s excuse?

“I go to appointments with doctors, and take classes online, and sometimes I visit Varric or the Iron bull.” He adds. He’s playing with the strings on his gloves whilst he talks, not paying much attention to where he’s stepping, so Dorian makes sure he doesn’t run into anything.

“And it’s just…That?” He asks, because that too sounds boring to him.

“I like routine.” Cole states very quietly, hesitant. Dorian gets the feeling he gets judged for this often.

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” He responds. “It’s not my cup of tea, but routine can be…Comforting.”

“You don’t like routine.” Cole says. It’s not a question.

Dorian doesn’t answer, mulling over his thoughts. He did hate routine. Routine for him meant schedule, and schedules made him think of the endless choices that were made for him. Time to do this, time to do that, no time for his, you need to do that. Years and years of schedules and time slots, and the promise of these choices being made for him forever. He shivers, face crinkling up in disgust at the thought.

“And you ask her if you can go and play, but she says you have a lesson, and you ask her if you can eat, but eating is for later, and you ask her if you have time to sleep, but no there are meetings. You have to get used to this, Dorian. You have to handle the schedules. You have to listen, you can’t be late. Never be late, Dorian.” Cole’s voice is soft, but the words are so hard they make Dorian want to break.

He wants to tell the boy to stop, but he remembers Lavellan’s initial description of him; ‘he’s just trying to help.’

“Yes, that would be it, Cole.” He says, not hiding the despondent feeling inside him from his voice. “My parents had big dreams for me, and that included following their demands. Schedules were a part of that.”

“He finds routine comforting. Less things he has to guess, less things to go wrong.” Cole is not talking about Dorian, and not himself.

“Lavellan?” Dorian tries, and Cole nods.

“You’re a spontaneous spark in his schedule. He wishes he didn’t see you when the variables demanded it.” The boy explains. “You should text him more. If you asked to spend time with him, he’d say yes.”

They’re standing outside the funeral home, Cole staring at Dorian with wide, hopeful eyes eyes, which quickly hide back under his hat as if using them was a mistake.

“I…I will.” Is all Dorian can get out.

Cole smiles.

“You should probably get to the market soon, Cole.” The mortician adds.

“Of course. You have a mother to mend.” Dorian doesn’t know how Cole knows about the body waiting for his hands to fix, the one who had seven children, seven children who wanted to see their mother’s face one more time. A face that was currently blood and flesh, carved up by the factory equipment she’d fallen into.

But before he’s done thinking about it, Cole is gone, and Dorian is left standing by himself, staring at the place where he had been standing.

He gives Merrill her breakfast and sits down to do more management things, trying not to think of the morning he’s just had. Later that day he texts Lavellan and asks if he’d like to spend time with him some day, maybe have dinner.

Just like Cole said, Lavellan says yes.

-

“Hello?” The soft voice of Cole rings out through the buzzer.

“Cole? It’s Dorian.”

“Oh, I’ll come get you!” Dorian waits outside the apartment building, waiting patiently in the pouring rain. He’d walked here, so he was already soaking wet, but that didn’t make this anymore pleasant.

“You’re wet.” Are Cole’s first words when he opens the door to the building and lets him inside.

“Well, yes, that _is_ what happens when it rains.” Dorian snarks sarcastically, following Cole into the building.

“Sorry you got wet.” Cole leads him into an elevator and soon they’re on the tenth floor, standing in front of an apartment, the boy fumbling with a ring of keys before they go in.

The building is quite nice, so it’s no surprise to Dorian that the apartment itself is nice. Lavellan’s place is warm, with matching furniture and decorated with woven tapestries and statues, various art, some of which Dorian recognises as Solas’s work. Most of the décor is of halla, he notices, deer figurines and pictures of forests with gleaming white creatures among the trees, but there’s also various art scattered around and piles of books arranged haphazardly on shelves. The kitchen is attached to the livingroom, and this is where he spots Lavellan, standing at a cutting board and mincing what looks like garlic.

He’s wearing a tunic again, this one a pale blue colour, not elaborate in design like his formal one, matched with a pair of black leggings.

“I got Dorian.” Cole states, wandering over to one of the couches and sitting on the arm of it, feet drawn up.

“Thank you Cole.” Lavellan smiles at his friend before looking at Dorian, his smile dropping to worry, eyes growing wide. There’s a look in his gaze that Dorian has seen on the dead, and that’s disturbing enough as is, but this look is full of blood and emotions, and it’s on a face he likes.

“Oh, dear, you’re soaking.” Lavellan dashes out of the room before Dorian can even think of how to speak, returning with a pile of towels in his arms. “Here, take off your shoes, we can, oh gosh I didn’t realise it was raining so much.” The elf throws a towel over Dorian’s shoulders before tugging him into the bathroom, fingers fidgeting over his clothes and hair. “I’ll um, I’ll get you a…Gosh I’m so sorry, Dorian, I should have…Oh I shouldn’t have done it. I should have we could have I could have _fenedhis_ …”

His hands are shaking as he fusses with a towel, face more anxious than it ought to be. “Darling?” Dorian tries to calm him down, but his friend’s eyes are a bit too unfocused, almost glazed as his breath quickens. “Darling? Please…” He holds up his hands to try and still him, but when he doesn’t stop he sighs and catches Lavellan’s wrists, holding them still as the smaller man jolts, staring at the hands as if he doesn’t know where they came from.

“I’m fine, amatus.” He says softly, hopefully comfortingly, looking into Lavellan’s large, watery eyes. “It’s just water.”

“I…I wanted this to go well, I’m really sorry.” The elf’s voice flutters out in a whisper. For a moment he just breathes, closing his eyes and focusing, brow draw close together. When he let’s out the breath his eyes open and Dorian is revealed to find Lavellan no longer looks so terrified. Lavellan sighs and leans his head against Dorian’s chest, almost slumping as if in defeat, not seeming to mind getting his hair or face wet in the process.

“It’s really fine.” Dorian cracks a smile, which feels awkward on his lips.

“I can get you…I don’t think I have too many clothes that’ll fit you…I’ll…I’ll look.” Lavellan stares up at Dorian again, looking lost. “Just um…Take off your wet clothes before you get sick, I’ll be right back.” He leaves before Dorian can comment, darting out of the room.

He seems OK though, no longer panicking, and Dorian lets him walk away. It takes Lavellan a significant time to return, so getting undressed just makes sense. The mortician has already peeled off his shirt and jacket when the door opens, his hands on the zipper of his pants.

“I found some of- OH!” Lavellan freezes in the doorway, hands clutching a pile of clothes to his chest. His face is adorably flushed, pupils blown wide as he stares at Dorian’s chest, bare and damp from the rain. Said tevinter man smirks, moving his hands to his hips to give Lavellan a better view, watching as the elf’s eyes trail down his chest, to his abdomen, to the dark patch of hair travelling into his half-opened pants.

“I um…Uh…” Lavellan seems to be frozen in his spot, gaze locked on Dorian.

Dorian takes the few slow steps that put him in front of Lavellan, leaning close enough for their noses to almost touch. “Like what you see?” His voice is dark and sultry, eyes half-lidded as hand sneaks out to wrap around the pile of clothes, effectively tugging Lavellan closer to him.

“Well um…no? Yes. I mean, you look…But I didn’t mean to, I just…” Dorian chuckles as the elf stumbles over his words, flush running down his neck. He likes this look a lot better compared to the terrified one Lavellan had previously been sporting. He thinks he could live forever if he never saw that face again, and maybe could die happy if he could see the blush on Lavellan’s cheeks whenever he wats.

As much fun as he’s having, though, his pants are too thick to stay comfortable wet, and the weight of them is straining his legs a bit. He leans forward to press a soft kiss on Lavellan’s cheek before tugging the clothes out of his hands. “I’ll just put these on, then.” He sets the pile on the sink and grins, reaching for his pants again.

Lavellan is out of the room in a flash, letting out the most adorable squeak as he practically slams the door. Dorian can hear him apologising to Cole on through the doorway, his voice breathless and strained.

Smirking to himself, Dorian finally rids his body of the last of his soaked clothing, examining the clothes Lavellan brought him.

The elf is naturally more lithe than him, shorter and slimmer. Dorian’s frame is reasonably broader as well, so it’d be expected that the clothes given to him would be too small, but he finds the shirt and pants to fit rather well, if not a bit snug in some places, and the socks and underwear to be just right. The shirt said “Train Like a Qunari” on it in large letters, and the pants were worn at the knees and stained red in odd places…

These obviously weren’t Lavellan’s clothes, and the style didn’t seem to match Cole at all.

He flips through the cabinets for a comb and fixes his wet hair before stepping out of the bathroom. Cole has disappeared from the room, but Lavellan is now sitting on the couch, a mug in his hands.

“Whose clothes are these?” Dorian asks as he steps out, walking up beside Lavellan so he can lean down a kiss him on the cheek. The act seems to surprise the small elf as he jolts, eyes darting to look at Dorian.

“Oh um…They’re Krem’s.” His face is still red from earlier as he sets down his mug and stands up, face growing darker again as he takes in Dorian in the tight clothing, hair still damp and clinging.

“Really?” Dorian examines the clothes again, and yes, they do seem like the sort of thing Krem would wear.

“He left them hear last time he stayed over so I could try and…well, get the blood stains out…I uh, didn’t do a very good job…And I think I shrunk them a bit?” That explained some things. Lavellan runs a hand through his hair in an obvious show of embarrassment as he darts away from Dorian to the bathroom, gathering up the wet clothes. “I’ll just put these in the dryer…” He murmurs.

Dorian just smirks at him. He squeaks again and leaves the apartment with the clothe sin his arms.

Krem, huh? Dorian examines the clothes again. Well, that explained the blood stains. He figures being a bodyguard isn’t exactly the cleanest line of work. Or the safest…

He turns to examine the room again and takes notice of the wall by the windows. It’s almost plastered with pictures; doodles, sketches, canvas paintings, photographs. It’s like a collage of eclectic artwork.

Dorian recognises some of the penmanship. There’s quite a few by Sera; drawings of Lavellan and his cat, of the girl herself throwing pies at Solas’s head, of her and Lavellan in various poses, of explosions and arrows in dead bodies and men without trousers. It’s undoubtedly Sera’s sense of humour, and her realistic art style is undeniable. Sometimes Dorian forgets she was a three year art major prior to dropping out of school.

As he noticed before, there are definitely paintings done by Solas, but most of those are on the back wall. This wall, however, does include sketches in Solas’s style on thick, grainy paper. They’re mostly of Lavellan, though some of the pictures are wolves and halla. There’s a very detailed one that looks like a plan for a painting, possibly never finished. It shows two figures standing in front of a shimmering light, vines wrapped around their ankles as trees are shown in the foreground. There’s water colours on the sketch around the light, test splotches, probably, and notes in small, careful handwriting.

On scraps of notebook paper and napkins and what looks like restaurant colouring pages, judging by the kids’ menus on them, are some doodles of winged nugs. It’s apparently the only thing whoever drew these knows how, or likes to, draw because there are plenty of them in different positions scattered across the wall. Most of them have little hearts draw around them as well.

And still, there are more pictures. There are smatterings of paint that are hard to determine the intent of, and rough sketches of figures intertwined, vaguely familiar in feature and rather shoddy in quality. There’s a sticky note with a drawing of The Iron Bull in thigh high heels, little more than a stick figure with the caption ‘horns up, legs up’. Snowflakes cut out of paper are placed near the window, one of them covered in a penned message about a broken coffee machine. There are photos of Lavellan’s cat, and photos of Cole on polaroid paper. At the bottom of a receipt is a doodle of a unicorn with an illegible comment below and a big smiley face. There’s a train ticket with a bunch of trees doodled across it, and what looks like gum wrappers with a series of pictures of crudely drawn rabbits. There's a note written in sloppy handwriting apologising for picking his lock, a series of hospital bands, and a newspaper clipping about the Champion of Kirkwall with non-essential words circled. 

And that’s not even a third of the wall. Such a simple description doesn’t cover the birthday cards from Varric or the letters from an unknown source or the laminated plants. It in no way makes sense of the betting slips or the sets of feathers taped under business cards that seem unrelated. It’s all bright and eclectic and terribly intimate to see someone’s life laid out on a wall like this. He wonders how long Lavellan had been collecting mementos of his friends, keeping every scrap of paper they had ever doodled on? Carefully taping up every picture, every sign of affection. It feels achingly intimate, almost so much that Dorian wants to run.

Dorian doesn’t do close. Years of experience show that keeping people at arms length is a good strategy. Even his friends he keeps out of his head, and he stays out of theirs. And he knows this makes him exceptionally callous, but he it’s safer than letting himself go to a place he doesn’t deserve.

Yet, here he was; standing in a man’s apartment and staring at this deeply affectionate wall, wearing borrowed cloths and waiting to just spend time with him. It’s not Dorian Pavus under any definition and that’s terrifying.

“Those ones are mine.” Cole continues his habit of appearing from nowhere, and Dorian cannot help but jump a little this time. The pale boy is perched on the couch arm, finger pointing to the paintings that are little more than splotches of colour. “He likes to collect pieces of his friends. When the dark times tinge the edges of his sight, he can remind himself nothing can make him alone, and that’s comforting.”

“It’s lovely.” Dorian says genuinely.

“It’s hard for you to look at, though.” Cole states. He’s swinging his legs, alternating between which one goes forward. Right. Left. Right. Left. “It doesn’t fit, this doesn’t fit. Things are supposed to make sense, but this doesn’t and it’s unwonted and misshapen.”

Dorian frowns. “I’m sorry Cole, but I don’t think I can do this right now.” He says with all the politeness he can. He doesn’t resent Cole’s oddly spot on mind reading psychotherapy, but right know it’s hard to handle having to think about his own thoughts more than someone else. “Can we talk about something else?”

“I met a man at the market who could put both of his eyes in his hands.” Cole responds as if the previous subject never existed.

Dorian turns away from the wall to look at him. He’s holding out both of his hands, palms down and fingers curled in, like a fist, then slowly turns them over and opens his hands as if to reveal something in his hands, but of course there’s nothing there.

“It must be different to look at the world from your hands…You’d be able to see a lot more.” He spreads his arms out to the side, spread eagle, and his hands helpfully demonstrate all the directions they could look in.

“You’d always know when someone was following you, I suppose.” Dorian doesn’t really know how to respond to this fairly surreal conversation, so he tries not to answer as literally as he’d like.

“I think you’d be able to see more birds.” Cole’s hands move towards the ceiling, staring through his fingers up at non-existent trees.

Dorian chuckles. “I suppose you would. Though your eyes would be a tad bit more vulnerable if located on your palms.”

“Easier to stab?”

“Probably not any easier than on your head. No, I was more referring to the contaminants that your hands involve themselves with regularly. We use our hands to interact with the world, and the eyes are too sensitive to withstand the amount of wear they would undergo.”

“Maybe then you need two sets of hands.”

This conversation wasn’t going to get any weirder. Probably.

…

It doesn’t, though it lasts a good ten minutes. By the time Lavellan returns, Cole and Dorian are still having their odd conversation about where eyes should and shouldn’t be, and the small elf is suitably confused.

“What did I just walk in on?” He asks, approaching the two cautiously.

“Eyes.” Cole responds, raising his hands to cup around his own eyes like binoculars.

Dorian can’t help himself and chuckles, smiling fondly at Cole in a way he would totally deny if anyone ever brought it up.

“I shouldn’t leave you two alone.” Lavellan sighs, turning on heel towards the kitchen. Dorian follows after, watching as the elf turns on the stove, a small blue flame appearing under a full pot of water.

“Do you want help?” The tevinter man offers, leaning casually against the doorway.

“Not today.” Lavellan smiles cheekily. “This one’s a bit too advanced for you.”

“Well I never!” Dorian exclaims in mock offense, dramatically placing a hand on his chest.

Lavellan huffs out a laugh.

“I’ll just keep you company, then.” Dorian adds, and walks over to leans on the counter next to where Lavellan is pulling out cooking ingredients.

“I’m just doing the last few bits. Can you take the food out of the oven when the timer goes off?” Lavellan suggests, throwing Dorian a charming smile.

“Naturally.” Dorian watches the elf busy himself with knives and vegetables and pots of water, and when the timer goes off he dutifully takes the oven mitts and pulls out the pan inside. Once again he feels disgustingly domestic, but with the look Lavellan keeps sending him, he finds he doesn’t mind quite so much…

 Cole comes in when the foods almost done and the three fill their plates and sit at the small table. The meal is quiet, only filled with the sounds of eating, though those are mildly drawn out by the loud panging of rain setting a background noise. The wood is warm and filling and Dorian tries to think of the last time he had such a good meal. Probably before he left home.

Neither Lavellan nor Dorian are finished eating when Cole picks up his plate and brings it to the kitchen. Lavellan says nothing, though eyes Cole’s plate for a moment, as if judging whether he ate enough. If Dorian were the judge here, he would say no, considering how little food the boy had put on his plate in the first place, but Lavellan seemed satisfied, and let Cole go to his room. Minutes later Cole reappears form his room with a bag in his hands and waves to Lavellan before leaving the apartment.

 The elf must be signalled from Dorian’s pause in eating, or perhaps his facial expression, because he pauses as well to speak. “Cole’s going to go down to the laundry room and read the obituary before stopping by Cullen’s apartment to pet his dog.” He explains. Dorian raises an eyebrow. “He’ll eat again when he returns. His stomach is weak due to a series of malnourishment periods when he was young. Right now he wants to be alone, though.”

“How did you know where he was going?” Dorian asks.

“If he was leaving the building, he’d tell me.” Lavellan shrugs. “Cole is very routine. If he leaves the apartment but not the building, there are only three places he will willingly go; The Laundry Room, Cullen’s Apartment, and the mail room. The mail room is locked up for the night, so he can’t got here, and he knows we have laundry downstairs. That grocery bag had the newspaper in it. Cole only reads the obituaries, but he knows no one else likes to see him read them, so he’ll do it in private and then visit Cullen’s dog, hopefully after asking Cullen first.”

“Commander Cullen lives in this building?” Dorian certainly wasn’t expecting that.

“You know him? He’s the one who found this apartment for us, actually.”

“He works with Cassandra, yes? We’ve only formally met once, I don’t think he likes me. Pity, he is handsome…How do you know him?”

Lavellan grins. “I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.” He holds up three fingers, and Dorian can’t help but chuckle.

“Varric, then?” That man knew everyone, it seemed, even though Dorian himself was hardly his acquaintance.

The elf doesn’t even bother answering, just smiles and finishes eating. Dorian follows, and soon the meal is done and the dishes are placed in the kitchen. Lavellan sets the pots and pans aside to soak in soapy water, and then the two take to the couch, the smaller man almost immediately fitting himself against Dorian’s side, happy to use him as a pillow.

Dorian himself is not a fan of small talk, and it seems Lavellan isn’t either, so conversation flows far away from work and weather and veers into the things they find similar in one another; books, schooling, interests. They both studied business, though of two very different types, so much comparison was brought up there, and it seemed they both read a plethora of books, though genres stretched thin with comparison.

When their words grow personal, Dorian notices Lavellan isn’t a fan of talking about himself. He skirts around topics of his clan and his moving, and all the spaces in between, only willing to talk of small things, like memories he has with Sera and how he met Leliana (a lovely tale that included multiple arrests, a robbery, and very expensive tea, none of which Lavellan was involved in directly, which was the funny part).

In contrast, Dorian is happy to talk about himself. It is, after all, his favourite subject.

“Well, you are correct in your assumption that my family is wealthy. My father is a politician of sorts in the Imperium, both him and my mother coming from a long line of careful, meticulous noble lineage. The upper crust of Tevinter is mostly expensive but distasteful wine and backhanded comments about who’s wearing and what, and whose company is stealing from the church. It’s all very blasé, in my opinion.” In Dorian had a glass of fine wine, he’d me swirling it happily right now.

“What’s Tevinter like?” The small accountant asks from his position parallel to Dorian, having migrated across the couch during their conversation, legs thrown over Dorian’s lap, head resting on his chest, tucked against the back cushion.

“Pompous, expensive, racist.” Dorian says with a dismissive wave of his free hand, the other one too busy idly playing with Lavellan’s hair, something neither of them have acknowledged or really noticed past their peripheral understanding of their own tactile feelings. “Exactly what you’d expect, naturally. Though the weather is much nicer, and the architecture actually tries opposed to well…Here.” He sniffs, glancing out the window where neither can see barely a light past the rain and the night time darkness.

Lavellan laughs breathily. “Yes, I’ve noticed that too. Orlais has much nicer buildings, all gold and fancy. Here they just…Well, they serve their purpose.”

“It lacks an artistic attempt, even. Most middle-class homes in Minrathous are ten times nicer than the hovels here.”

“It’s probably hard for you to properly compare considering how nice your bloody castle must have been.” Lavellan adds cheekily, looking up at Dorian as if challenging him.

“To be fair, estate is a much better word for it.” The mortician responds in an equally sarcastic tone.

“Did you have servants?”

Dorian holds his breath. There’s no malice in the question, just plain curiosity, but the implications behind it are still clear. He knows when people say servant and refer to Tevinter, they mean slaves, and he is well aware of how they feel about it in the south. He himself had changed his views vastly when he arrived here all those years ago. Perspective means a lot.

“Not personally, but my parents did.”

Lavellan drops his eyes and goes silent. Dorian can practically see his thoughts circling in the air. He tries not to think about it. On one hand, he doesn’t want Lavellan to resent him for his past, on the other hand, he knows he deserves it…But he doesn’t want Lavellan to be one of those who immediately judge him for something he had no control over. Not again…

“Thank you for being honest.”

Dorian lets out a long breath.

“Most of the time people want to skirt around it…I’d rather you just tell me than spare my feelings.” Lavellan continues.

“The slave trade is not a part of my country that I am proud of. It’s not exactly something I questioned growing up, either. Wasn’t until I fled home and travelled south that I realised how bad it was.” Dorian wrinkles his nose, face twitching like he wants to frown. “That’s the thing about cultural acts people _know_ are immoral. You raise people to think it’s absolutely fine to own another being, to never think of where they come from.”

“The Dalish are the same way.” Lavellan admits quietly. He dodges his eyes, chewing on the bottom of his lip and trying not to look like he shouldn’t be saying this. “We may not own slaves, but we’ve spent so long doing nothing about the slave trade. We’re well aware of how much city elves suffer under it, but we only protect our own, and we pretend that’s alright”

His words are deeply personal, enough to make Dorian feel uncomfortable, at least a little bit. It’s kind of like choking on a live fish, spluttering and grunting as you try to remove the slithery being from your gullet, coughing up blood and feeling horribly vulnerable.

The uncomfortable silence that follows chokes the air, and both men can feel it down to their marrow. They shift in their seats and examine the walls. It’s damn awkward.

“…This is all very nice and all, but I’m not exactly a patient man.” Dorian says after a long period of silence.

“What do you mean?” Lavellan raises an eyebrow, looking up at the mortician who smirks back down at him.

“I mean that all this flirting and dancing is very nice, but I’d rather kiss you.” Dorian raises an eyebrow, watching a blush sprint up the elf’s skin, all the way to his ears. He leans down, much, much closer, lips skimming the pointed ear of the small elf. “What do you say?” Dorian feels Lavellan jolt against his chest as the warmth of the Tevinter man’s breath sends shivers up his spine.

With his back pressed up against Dorian’s chest, he not only hears, but feels the deep chuckle that is his response to the elf’s flustery reaction. With a soft bite of his lip, a clench of his fist, and a flash of determination, Lavellan suddenly whips around and presses his lips to Dorian’s.

As kisses go, it’s nothing special. If anything, the angle makes it hard to keep together, and the sudden movement Lavellan had demonstrated clashed their mouths together harshly. In but a moment, the elf pulls away and practically falls off the couch trying to scramble off of Dorian.

The man is left with empty arms and a dumbfounded look on his face, not expected the kiss, but expecting the running away even less.

“Are you okay?” He asks the elf, who is sprawled on his knees, pressing a hand to his head.

“I missed the table.: He replies. “Not sure if that’s a good thing.”

“At least the carpet caught you.” Dorian holds out his hands which are taken gratefully, and pulls Lavellan into his lap, this time front forward. “Want to try that again?” He asks, trying to smile kindly but he’s not exactly excellent at that.

“You _want_ to try that again?” Lavellan asks, still flushed and confused.

“Naturally. I do _want_ to kiss you.”

So they kiss. Lavellan’s lips are soft and taste like flavourless chapstick. Dorian’s are actually quite dry, and followed by the brush of his mustache. It’s soft and quick and chaste.

They kiss again and again, holding tight to one another, breathless.

It feels more right than it ought to. It feels inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the Solas part first. It's honestly my favourite part, the idea of purposefully feeding Solas tea just to tick him off is just too damn amusing. 
> 
> The wall part was something I had been musing over for awhile. Defining some of the mentioned pictures;  
> The nug drawings are from Krem  
> "rough sketches of figures intertwined, vaguely familiar in feature and rather shoddy in quality" is actually Cassandra's fan art for Swords and Shields  
> The tree doodles are from Solas  
> 'horns up legs up' is from Sera, and so are the Polaroids  
> 'letters from an unknown source' are from clan lavellan  
> the unicorn receipt is from Maryden  
> The crudely drawn rabbits are from Cole
> 
> There's like subtle references to Counting on You in this, but nothing too important. If you want more of Lavellan and Solas's relationship, though, you should read that. Also if you want more Cole.


End file.
